The martyrdom of Madeline

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Cornell University Library
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The martyrdom of Madeline.

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i

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THE

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE

BY

ROBERT BUCHANAN

AUTHOR OF GOD AND THE MAN THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD ETC.

A NEW EDITION'

CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY

189,1

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LONDON

PREFATORY NOTE.

In this story I have touched, very feebly and inadequately,
on one of the greatest and saddest of human problems —
as great and sad, certainly, as the problem which forma
the central purpose of my ' Shadow of the Sword.' "What
the creed of Peace is to the state, the creed of Purity is
to the social community. So long as carnal indulgence is
recognised as a masculine prerogative, so long as personal
chastity is a supreme factor in the fate of women, but
a mere accident in the lives of men, so long as the diabolic
ingenuity of a strong sex is tortured to devise legal means
for sacrificing a weaker sex — so long, in a word, as our
homes and our streets remain what they are — the creed of
Purity must remain as forlorn a dream as that other creed
of Peace.

One word more with regard to my dramatis personce,
none of whom are to be taken for photographs or carica-
tures of living individuals. In one case I have endea-
voured to construct out of the editorial chit-chat of a
journal an amusing personality,— not, I think, ungener-
ously conceived ; of the real editor I know absolutely
nothing, and I certainly bear him no iU-wDl, much as I
dislike the system of personal journalism which he has
created. All the other characters are purely fictitious.
Gavrolles and his circle are to be accepted as representa-
tives, not of jestheticism proper, but of the cant of sesthe-
ticism — ^which is quite another thing.

K. B,

CONTENTS.

TUAPTER

Peologtie in the Nigkt . .

»

paob

1

I.

A Dancing Lesbon under Difficulties .

8

II.

'UtfCLE' Luke and 'Uncle' Maek

9

III.

Easteb Solemnities of the Bbetheen .

14

IV.

Uncle Mabk Parts with the Old Eaegb

. 19

V.

Uncle Mark Sails up the Shining Eiveji

27

VI.

Madeline is about to Eealise Heb Dbeam

33

Vll.

Introduces a Distinguished Litebaey Bo-

hemian

. 37

vin.

Uncle Luke is Beoken-TTraeted .

. 43

IX.

Madeline Finds New Fbiends . •

. 48

X.

A Telegraphic Thundeebolt .

. 54

XI.

The Hawk and the Dote

, 61

XII.

Caged

. 68

xni.

Madeline Awakes eeom Heb Dbeam

. 77

xrv.

Dabkeb Days

. 88

XV.

Belleisle Spreads his Net .

. 92

XVI.

' "Which do you Pity ? ' .

. 98

xvn.

The Babs Beoken ....

103

XVIII.

Imogen

. 107

xrx.

The Haeum-Soaeums ....

115

XX.

A Painter's Model . .. . ,

121

XXI.

A Walk Across Hyde Park . . ,

126

xxn.

Blanco Serena ....

137

XXIII.

At the Club

145

XXIV.

White Bids a Ti*st Fabewell to Bohemia

154

XXV.

Madeline Changes Her Name

164

Tiii

CONTENTS.

OHiPTBR

PAGB

XXVI.

The Pupil op the iMraooABiE ,

. 170

XXVII.

AdELE TiAMBBBT . . . >

, . 178

XXVIII.

At the Countess Aukelia's . .

. 184

XXIX.

■ G-ATBOUJBS . . . . •

. 193

XXX.

In the Toils

. 198

XXXI.

In the Row

. 203

xxxn.

Husband and Wife . . .

, 207

xxxm.

Old Jouenalism — and New . .

. 211

XXXIV.

A SELE^CONSTITnTED ChAMPION .

. 219

XXXV.

Madeline Peepabes foe Flight .

. 227

XXXVI.

' GOOD-HYK 1 '

, 232

XXXVII.

The Search . . . . •

, 235

xxxvni.

' One Moeb Unfoetunate ' . ,

. 242

XXXIX.

Dust to Dust

. 246

XT,,

'Eesueqam'

. 253

XLI.

The Sibtbes op Mount Edbs ,

. 259

XLH.

Exit Gateolles ....

. 268

xLin.

On Bouloonb Sands . , .

. 274

XLIV.

' Jane Pkadteee ' . . , .

. 279

XLV.

An Old Piotuee ....

. 286

XLVI.

How Madeline Eose Again •

. 289

Epilogue, • . •

- 292

THE

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

PROLOGUE IN THE NIGHT.

As the two women gazed at one another under the lamp-
light, one standing and looking down, the other sitting and
looking up, yon would have said they might have been
twin sisters — they looked so wonderfully alike. Both
were fair, with pale forget-me-not eyes, and skins deli-
cately clear ; both were tall and slight. Nor was there
any very noticeable difference in the dress they wore. She
who stood erect, with the rain beating down upon her head,
wore only, besides her bonnet and dress of black stuff, a
shawl wrapt tightly around her ; the shawl was rich and
valuable, but looked common enough in the dim light.
She who sat, with her elbow on her knees and her- chin
resting in her open palms, wore a shawl too, and a plain
stuff dress, sodden with the rain ; her bonnet had fallen
back, soaking and unheeded, on her shoulders, just held
by the sodden strings.

A close observer, however, would have perceived a
world of difference between these two women. The
woman standing had the fierce, pained, impatient manner
of a wild animal ; every look, every gesture was self-con-
tained, determined, yet full of overmastering anxiety.
The woman "sitting was a crushed," gin-sodden, passionless,
powerless waif, with only the courage of a hunted pariah
dog, to snap, and crawl uselessly away.

h

3 MAIlTTnDOM OF MADELINE.

Both were very young, neither being more than twenty-
one or twenty-two years of age.

'That way ! — over the Bridge ! ' said the woman sit-
ting, in a husky voice; then she added, as the other
seemed about to pass on, ' Stop though I what are you
going to stand ? '

The other turned quickly, and again looked down with
her large eager eyes.

' What do you want? — Money ? ' The voice was deep
and clear, though it trembled a little.

' Yes, I'm as thirsty as a fish. Lend me a shilling, and
I'll pay you back some night when I'm in luck. Only a
shilling ! that won't break you ! '

' If I give you the money, what will you do with it ? '

' Drink it,' was the curt reply.

Something in the answer had a curious e£fect on the
hearer. She stooped softly down and looked earnestly in
the other woman's face.

' You'll know me again when you'see me 7 '

' Do you mind telling me your name 7 '

' Ellen, — never mind what else. Nell for snort.

' Where do you live 7 '

' Anywhere.'

' How old are you 7 '

'Lord knows. Twenty or thereabouts. Are you
going to keep on questioning all the blessed night? I
want something to drink.'

The girl who stood bent over the sitting girl and placed
something in her hand. She uttered a suppressed cry.

• Gold I "Why, you've given me a sovereign ! What
for?'

' I have only another, or I would give you more. I
am sorry for you. Good night 1 '

' Stop ! don't go. Let me have another look at you.'

'Well?'

' What a fool I was 1 Why you're a lady I '

It was the other's turn to laugh now — a low, bitter
laugh.

' And you've got on a real Injy shawl — ^let me feel it !
And there's a pair of gold bracelets on your wrists I Well,
I'm 11 •

MARTTBDOM OF MADELINE. 8

This with a prolonged half whistle, expressive of utter
surprise. Then she continued —

' I don't know who you are, or where you're a-goifag,
but the streets ain't safe for the likes of you. You'd best
go home, my lady ! '

' I have no home.'

•What I'

'■ What home I had I have left, never to go back. I am
leaving London.'

' Where are you going? '

' Anywhere.' After a moment's pause she pointed
across the river and over the house-tops, and added, * Out
there.'

' Friends there, I suppose 7 '

* No friends.'

'And not much coin. Ah, well, you've them swell
bracelets ; and the shawl, too, is worth money.'

It was very strange — innocent as the remark seemed,
it appeared to make the tall figure of the listener tremble
with agitation, perhaps with anger. With a quick im-
petuous movement she drew off her bracelets and threw
them into the girl's lap.

' Take them — I don't want them ! And the shawl too
— take it, and give me yours.'

' No, you're joking ! '

' Quick 1 '

In a moment the change was effected ; and the women
now stood erect and face to face. The commoner and
more outcast creature seemed utterly stupefied by what
had taken place. Suddenly the other seized both her
hands, and said quickly —

' The river — is it there ? '

A light seemed suddenly to flash in upon the Outcast's
bewildered brain.

' You're not a-going to drown yourself? No I '

' I don't know — perhaps 1 '

This with a peculiar smile,

' It's no use ; there's too many eyes a- watching. I tried
it myself once, slap off the Embankment, but I was fished
out like a wet rag. Don't you be such a fool I You're a
lady, and you had best go home,'

b2

4 MARTYHBOM OF MADELINE.

Without replying, the lady began to move rapidly away.
Seized by a peculiar impulse, the outcast cried after her^

' Come back — take your things — it's a shame for me to
have them. Take them back.'

' No ; keep them. Good-bye. May I kiss you T '

' If you like,' was the stupefied reply.

The lips of the two women met, their breaths mingled
for a moment. Then, while the one stood petrified, star-
ing in utter astonishment, the other flitted rapidly and
silently away.

CHAPTER I.

A DANCING LESSON UNDEB DIFFICULTIES.

Twelve years before the occurrence of the incident de-
scribed in my prologue, a curious group was assembled in
a quiet corner of Grayfleet Churchyard. Grayfleet is a
damp, aguish, lonely, desolate village, on the verge of the
great Essex marshes ; and its old church, like a skull with
two empty, lifeless eyes, gazes with two dreary windows
right down on the marshes, towards that low-lying mist
where they mingle with the sea.

The group of which I have spoken consisted of some
six girls and one little boy. The girls were of divers ages,
from six to sixteen, and all were more or less smartly
dressed in holiday clothes, for it was a Good Friday. They
stood in a ring round a flat tombstone, grey with age, and
green with slime of moss. On this tombstone a fair little
girl of eight, with dishevelled hair and flushed cheeks, was
practising the first steps of a dance. Her iDstructi;ess waa
the eldest of the party, a pale, red-haired wench of sixteen,
who watched her with keenly critical eyes, and at times
stepped forward, took her place on the tombstone, and
showed her how to use her feet.

First position — heel and toe — cut and shuffle.

' Lookee here, Mawther ! ' cried one of the girls to a
passer- by. ' Come and see Polly Lowther teaching Mark
Peartree's girl to dance.'

Another girl came running into the churchyard, and
joined the group.

MARTTRBOM OF MADELINE. 6

* That's the style ! ' exclaimed Polly Lowther, as tue
red-haired girl was called. ' You'll soon learn, if you only
try. Look at me, Madlin. "Watch my feet.'

First position — heel and toe — cut and shuffle.

The girls clapped their hands enthusiastically, and the
little boy, who was sitting astride on a green grave, grinned
approval.

Fired by the applause bestowed on her teacher, the
little fair girl^' Madljn,' as the others called her — began
wildly practising the steps.

First position — heel and toe — cut and shuffle.

Suddenly there was a rush, a cry. The troop of girla
scattered on every side and disappeared : the little boy
cried and ran. Only ' Madlin ' remained, so absorbed for
the time being in her dancing that for a moment she did
not notice that she was left alone, and that a tall figure in
black, with white neckcloth, stood frowning at her.

The next moment she was conscious of her predicament.
Flushed and panting, she stood and gazed, and recognised
to her horror the Rector of the parish.

She gave one glance around, to see if she was quite
abandoned, and then, seeing no trace of her companions,
she curtsied timidly, and stood her ground.

' Little girl,' said the Rector, in a terrible voice, ' I
don't know you — what is your name ? '

She hung her head awkwardly, and made no reply.

' Do you hear me 7 What is your name ? '

The little girl raised her head, looked straight at the
Rector, and answered in a clear voice —

' If you please, sir, I'm Madlin — Mark Peartree's girL'

The Rector's brows came down still more.

' Mark Peartree ; I think I know the man — he lives
down at the ferry, and sails in a barge. Is he your
father? '

The girl, who had a common straw hat swinging by.
the ribbon in her mouth, gnawed the ribbon, and replied
shortly —

' No, he ain't.'

' What is he, then 7 ' asked the Rector. ' Some reli*-
tion7'

' No,' was the immediate reply. ' I call him uncle, but

6 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

he isn't a real uncle, nor Uncle Luke neither. I'm a
foundling — Aunt Jane found me, out there 1 '

And with a back sweep of her hand, the little girl
indicated the great marshes, steaming and reddening in the
setting sun.

'And whoever you are, are you not aware,' said the
Rector, improving the occasion, ' that you are a very wicked
little girl 7 Upon this holy day of all days in the year I
find you practising a vicious pastime here, in God's own
acre ! On a tombstone 1 Little girl, do you know that
there is a dead fellow-creature lying under you, and that
you are profaning his place of rest 7 '

The girl gave a start and a scared look downward, as if
half expecting the dead man to arise and confront her;
then half unconsciously she edged off the tombstone and
stood, ankle deep in the long churchyard grass.

' I am afraid,' said the Eector, shaking his forefinger at
her. ' I am really very much afraid that you have been
very badly brought up. Tell me, have you ever heard the
word of God 7 Do you ever go to church 7 '

The answer was at any rate prompt and explicit.

' No — ^never.'

' Ah, I thought so. A sad case. And your father — ^I
mean your adopted father — is he not ashamed of himself
to bring you up in ignorance and sin 7 '

This was touching rather a dangerous chord. The little
girl flushed, panted, opened her large blue eyes full on the
minister and exclaimed —

'Uncle Mark isn't ashamed of himself, no more is
Uncle Luke ! They go to their meeting, and I go too.
They're United Brethren, and when I grow up, Tm to be
a Brethren too 1 '

' Brethren ! '

This was said in a tone which clearly implied that their
cup of moral delinquency, in the Rector's eyes, was now
full and overflowing. The good pastor could have endured
a family which repudiated Christianity altogether, but any
form of Dissent was worse even than the rankest blas-
phemy. It is doubtful what turn the interview would
have taken, but just at this moment an unexpected diver-
sion took place, A thin &hrill voicQ, doubtless appertain*

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 7

ing to one of the little girl's late companions, suddenly
pealed out, from some mysterious corner where its owner
lay hidden —

' Look out, Madlin ! Here's your Uncle Luke a-
comin' 1 '

Madeline looked startled ; then, strange to say, her face
grew quite bright and eager. The Rector seemed per-
plexed, and uncertain what to say next. Just then the
gate of the churchyard opened, and a little man, with very
short legs and a very large head, looked in, and seeing
Madeline, quietly entered.

* Uncle ! Uncle Luke !

The little man nodded his head and smiled. Then,
seeing the Eector, he took off his hat and grinned.

It was a peculiarity of the little man that he expressed
all thoughts and moods by means of a rather mindless
smile, sometimes broadening into a grin. For the rest, he
had large watery eyes and a large mouth, and his general
appearance was homely and awkward in the extreme.

By this time Madeline was at his side, holding his hand
and looking up into his face.

The Eector strode across the churchyard.

' I have just been warning this child against dancing
upon the tombstones. I have told her that she is a very
wicked child, and she has informed me that her relations
belong to some Methodist persuasion. Be that as it may,
you will doubtless agree with me that her conduct to-day
has been extremely sacrilegious.'

The little man, still holding his hat in his hand, looked
at the Eector, then looked at Madeline, then smiled imbe-
cilely, then, feeling the smile out of place, tried to frown,
but only succeeded in distorting his good-humoured coun-
tenance into a confirmed grin. Then suddenly darting his
mouth down to the little girl's ear, he hoarsely whis-
pered —

' What is it, Madlin ? What's the matter ?"

' Polly Lowther was teaching me to cut and shuffle,'
SEiid the girl out loud, fixing her eyes in a fearless way on
the Rector ; ' aad Parson came out and found us, and all
the others ran away. I know dancing's wicked, because
Uncle Mark says so, but I couldn't help it, and Parsoo

S MARTTRBOM OF MADELINE.

says Uncle Mark ought to be ashamed of himself, and I
told Parson it isn't true I '

This explanation seemed to confuse the little man still
more. He scratched his head and peeped at the Kector
with a grin.

' Dancing's downright wicked,' he said, ' no doubt o*
that.'

' It is no laughing matter,' cried the Eector, indig-
nantly, irritated at the unaccountable expression on the
little man's face. ' Be good enough to leave the precincts
of the church. The child is a bad child, and has been
•badly trained. There, there, hold your tongue — I desire
no further explanations ; .only remember this, if that child
desecrates the churchyard again, I shall resort to severer
measures.'

So saying he waved the pair from the churchyard, shut
the gate sharply upon them, and stalked away to the Rec-
tory, with a bosom full of holy emotion and Christian
wrath.

The little man stood for some minutes in the open road,
dazed, gaping, and looking at the tall retreating figure.
Then he quietly put on his hat, and, conscious of the little
hand within his own, looked down at his companion, at a
loss what to say or do. At last he cut the Gordian knot of
his perplexity by grinning from ear to ear.

' Parson be in a powerful rage,' he said ; ' but dancing
be downright wicked, that's a fact ; ' and he added, with a
perplexed look, as if communing with his own thoughts,
' What shall I say to your Uncle Mark ? '

Madeline seemed to muse for some moments, then, as if
struck by a sudden inspiration, she exclaimed —

* Come along. Uncle Luke — diet's go home.'

The little man laughed contentedly, as if finding in the
proposition a solution of aU his difficulty ; and the little
legs began to move. Hand in hand, the two hurried down
the descent leading from the church to the outskirts of the
viUage. As they went along, Madeline peeped up quietly
from time to time at her companion, as if trying to read
his thoughts ; then, squeezing his hand tight, she said in a
coaxing voice —

' Uncle Luke ! '

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 9

• Yes, Madlin.'

• You won't tell Uncle Mark about my dancing.'

• I don't know — dancing be downright wicked.'

'I couldn't help it. Polly Lowther offered to teach
me, and all the other girls can dance a bit. And if you
won't say a word to Uncle Mark, I'll let you cut up my
new money-box that Uncle Mark gave me, and find out
what's inside.'

Unaccountable as it may seem, this extraordinary pro-
position seemed to find peculiar favour in Uncle Luke's
eyes. His large eyes twinkled, and his mouth broadened
from ear to ear, but he pretended to shake his head from
Bide to side in solemn deprecation of the bribe. Made-
line watched him keenly, and just as he seemed wavering,
she lifted his great brown hand to her mouth, and gave it
a passionate kiss. This seemed to unsettle Uncle Luke
altogether, and he murmured eagerly —

' All right, Madlin, / shan't tell.'

And Madeline knew well that a promise of this sort
from Uncle Luke was as good as an oath from any other
man. They quickened their pace, but she continued to
play with and fondle his hand, and now and then to hold
it to her lips. Confidence of this sort was what the li:,tle
man loved best of all things in the world, and the smile
upon his face grew broad and bright with intelligent con-
tent.

CHAPTER IL

'uncle' LUKE AND ' UNCLE ' MARK.

While the setting sun gleamed on Grayfleet, its grim
church, and its cluster of red-tiled dwellings, Uncle Luke
took a footpath leading across the marshes. All around
them the landscape was flat and level, with little or no
vegetation; for over the dark low levels the sea had
crawled, and would crawl again. Here and there hovered
a, seagull, tempted in 'from the distant salt water, and
searching the marsh for plunder ; and once, as they passed
a shallow pool, blood-red in the light, a heron rose with a
harsh cry and flapped slowly away.

10 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

A ■walk of half a mile across the marsh brought them
to the river side, and within view of a sort of pendant to
the upper village, in the shape of a row of tiny red-tiled
cottages on the very bank. Here there was a ferry-house,
with a licence ' to sell ale and tobacco.'

As they turned into the river path, the ferry-boat was
crossing leisurely, with a freight of country girls on their
way home from Grayfleet.

Uncle Luke trotted cheerfully along, still holding Made-
line by the hand. Her eyes were now on the shining river
and the drifting ferry-boat, and she had almost forgotten
her scene with the Kector.

They were a curious pair. The girl was a slender slight
thing, wild as some wayside weed. Her form was curiously
light and graceful ; her face, with its large passionate eyes,
very wistful and sad. The common cotton frock and coarse
country shoes and stockings became her well, though her
limbs were somewhat long and shapeless as yet. And if
the girl was not a little fairylike. Uncle Luke would cer-
tainly have passed well for a Gnome, or say rather, one of
those quaint Trolls whose task it was, according to Scan-
dinavian legend, to work busily in the bowels of the
earth.

AH the week long Uncle Luke did work, on the black
river barge of which he was mate and his brother captain.
From Monday to Saturday his figure was clad in blue
jersey, red cap, and rough tarpaulin trousers, and he helped
to work the barge on its short journeys up and down the
crowded river. But on the present occasion, it being a
holiday, his attire was radiant — a high chimney-pot hat,
very broad at the brim, and large enough to descend to his
ears, a blue pilot coat, a white waistcoat, and a coloured
cotton shirt, blue navy trousers, and lace-up boots. For
Uncle Luke loved splendour, and nothing suited him better
than to shine glorious in the eyes of his neighbours ; though
Uncle Mark, who was his elder brother, and strictly pious,
disapproved of all these vanities of apparel.

It may be admitted, without further preamble, that
Uncle Luke, though able-bodied, was mentally deficient ;
indeed, in the estimation of many sober and wiser people,
a simple foci, or, ia the local parlance, little better than 4

MARTYRDOM OF MAmUJNB, 11

natural. Yet his shortcomings were by no means upon the
surface, and it woulJ_have taken a very wise man to under>
stand them at a glance. He was harmless, industrious, and
in some respects particularly shrewd. He knew how many
pence make a shilling, and how many shillings a pound, as
well as most men, and he had a sharp intuitive perception
of human character. With all this he was simple beyond
measure, and his reasoning faculties were absolutely in-
finitesimal.

Great as was his good nature, he strongly resented any
imputation on his sagacity. His brother Mark had secured
him work at a v^ry low wage, on the understanding that he
was weak and easily tired ; and there on the bajge, under
his brother's eye, he laboured cheerfully, save when some
one was cruel enough to take advantage of his weakness or
to deride his infirmity. At such times, he was subject to
wild fits of passion. When these were over, he would
creep into the cabin, cry like a child, and perhaps take to
his hammock for days.

But to-day he looked happy enough, partly on account
of his lucky escape from the Eector, and partly because
Madeline had promised him the unparalleled treat of cut-
ting open her bright new money-box.

This was a kind of temptation he never could resist.
Had he possessed a watch, he would have taken it to pieces
to examine the works ; and he had been languishing with
curiosity for days, puzzling his head, as many a child has
done, to know what was inside the money-box labelled
* Savings' Bank,' with its front pointed like a town hall,
and a slit in its top for the reception of vagrant pence.

Having come in sight of the ferry, the two walked on
quickly. The sun blazed down on them with golden splen-
dour, and from beneath their feet the dust arose in a cloud.
Neither spoke ; Madeline continued to impress an occa-
sional kiss on the hand which she still held fondly in hers
— and to each of these exhibitions of feeling her companion
replied by a broad grin. Suddenly, however, he gave a
start and, looking down at his flushed and dusty companion,
said quickly —

' 1 say, Madlin, you'd best put on your Sunday hat
Tbepe be Uncle Mark at the garden gate 1 '

12 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

Without a word, Madeline obeyed. She took the hat,
which for coolness and comfort she had swung on her arm,
and tied it carefully on her head. Then regaining posses-
Bion of her uncle's hand, she walked decorously up to one
of the little green cottage gates, on the other side of which
Btood, indeed, her Uncle Mark.

Though Luke and Mark were brothers, they were as
unlike one another as two men could possibly be. Mark
Peartree stood six feet in his shoes ; he was very thin, and
he stooped slightly at the shoulders. His hair was grey,
his face red as a Kipston pippin, but his cheeks were
sunken, perhaps from the loss of many teeth.

The cottage was one of a row of red brick, with creepers
crawling over the front, a small plot of garden facing the
river, enclosed by green wooden railings and a green
wooden gate. Upon one of the gates now leaned Uncle
Mark, clad, too, in his Sunday best, but much less gaudily
than Luke, and looking down the road with impatience
marked on every lineament of his face.

' Here you be at last,' he said, when the vagrant pair
came up. ' Why, mate alive, can't you be home at meal
times ? Mother's in a powerful rage. Brother Brown be
coming this afternoon, and he'll be here afore we can get
our wittles done ! '

At this speech the smile faded from Luke's face ; but,
before he could utter a word in reply, another voice,
evidently that of a female, chimed in from the cottage —

' I'm sure, father, it be like you to be asking Bi-other
Brown and the Bretliren here of a Good Friday, as if we
didn't get enough of them every day i' the year. How-
ever, coming they be, but we shan't get the dinner over
any the quicker with you standing racketing there I '

The speaker stood in the doorway, the red brick and
the green creepers framing her as she stood. A comfort-
able looking woman, dressed in a clean cotton gown, with
a coarse white apron tied round her waist. She was short
and stout, with a brown good-humoured face and glossy
black hair. She wore a cap the long ends of which were
thrown over her shoulders and pinned behind, as if for
freedom ; her sleeves were rolled up nearly to the elbow,
and her hands and arms were mottled brown and red with
constant work in soap and water

MAItTYRDOM OF MABELmM IS

At siatt of this figtire, no other indeed than Mrs. Mark
Peartree, or, as Madeline called ,her, ' Aunt Jane,' the
good-humoured grin again took possession of Uncle Luke's
face. Passing through the little gate he made for the door
and at once enterad the house, while Madeline transferred
her attentions to Uncle Mark.

' It wasn't any fault o' Uncle Luke's,' she said, looking
up into the grim weather-beaten face, ' indeed, Uncle Mark,
'twas all on account o' me that he was so long — I was up
there with Polly Lowther, looking at the graves.'

In her eagerness to excuse her favourite, Madeline
might have revealed the dreaded secret of the dance, but
Uncle Mark, who had his own reasons for wishing to get
the dinner quickly disposed of, patted her hand and
said —

' All right, Madlin, my lass ; ' and, taking her small
hot hand in his big horny first, led her into the house.

It was a very small house. A long narrow passage led
from the front door to the back, and midway in the pas-
sage was a flight of narrow carpetless stairs. On the right
opened out two rooms — a kitchen, and a parlour, as it was
called. During the week, while the men were at work on
the river, the parlour was carefully closed up. No fire was
ever lit in it — it was dark, well polished, and genteel, with
a bit of drugget for a carpet, a china shepherd and shep-
herdess, and several shells on the mantelpiece, and on the
walls two highly illuminated pictures, one representing the
Prodigal Son, the other Susannah and the Elders. But in
the centre of the mantelpiece stood the crowning glory of
the apartment — a small ' weather- cottage ' made of wood,
formed in the shape of a roofed shed, and containing two
figures, one of ' Darby ' and another of ' Joan,' standing on
either side of a piece of wood, suspended in the centre by
a quicksilver pole. When the weather was fine, Joan swung
out, with her basket on her arm, as if going to market, and
left Darby under cover ; when it was wet, Joan retreated,
and Darby emerged to brave the elements like a man.
This weather-cottage was a miracle of art in Madeline's
eyes, and was regarded with no little reverence by all the
members of the house. Indeed, the parlour altogether was
a sanctuary, full of a pious clamminess and darkness, and
even Mrs, Peartree never entered it without a certain awe^

14 m-AllTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

tempered with a sense of increased respectabilily. From
week's end to week's end they remained in the red-tiled
kitchen, while on Sunday evening, and indeed on every
festive occasion hke the present, the parlour was thrown
open for the family use.

CHAPTER III.

EASTER SOLEMNITIES OF THE BRETHREN.

It was in the paven kitchen, however, that the party now
assembled, and taking their seats round the square deal
table, which was spread with a clean table-cloth, began at
once upon the dinner — a boiled leg of pork and potatoes.

With her little feet swinging to and fro, and her large
blue wistful eyes roving wistfully about the room, Made-
line sat and ate up her portion contentedly. The sun
streaming through the back window caressed her bright
cheek and dusty hair, and made her think of the glad light
which had touched her only a short time ago, while she
had been learning to dance upon the tombs. Suddenly a
strange thought seemed to strike her.

' Uncle Mark,' she said, while Uncle Luke dropped
his knife and fork in wonder, ' can dead folk feel ? '

' No, my lass,' returned Uncle Mark, with some little
surprise in his mild blue eyes. ' Dead men is dead as
nails is — they can't feel nothing. What put that into your
head?'

But Madeline did not answer ; a sense of great satis-
faction had stolen over her at this brief assurance, and,
with a glance of meaning at Uncle Luke, she said to
herself that, for once in his Ufe, the parson had been
wrong.

Dinner being over, there was a general movement, and
a great awe came over the family as the door of communi-
cation between the kitchen and parlour was throvra open,
and the latter was seen in all its sepulchral splendour.
Uncles Mark and Luke passed reverently in, and closed
the door ; but soon Madeline was made straight and clean,
and Bent in after them, while Aunt Jane, who Beemej

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 1«

seized with unaccountable irritability, remained to tidy up
the kitchen.

Once in the parlour; Madeline crept up to the ■window,
and gazed with wistful dreamy eyes across the little garden
on the great still river, which crept past flashing and
darkening in the sun. Uncle Mark, seated on a very shiny
and sticky horsehair sofa, was deep in the pages of the
family Bible, while Uncle Luke, with a face as grave as a
judge, was repeating in an undertone the words of an
Easter hymn. All was quiet and still in the sepulchral
chamber ; but through the closed door they could dis-
tinctly hear the rattling of dishes, the clangour of pots and
pans, from the kitchen. Presently this rattling and
clangour became positively furious, and simultaneously a
loud rat-a-tat was heard at the front door. Finally, to the
same noisy accompaniment, the room door was opened,
and a number of visitors came in one by one.

They consisted of a tall thin man, dressed in glossy
black, with a long thin face,, broad protruding forehead,
and a bald head ; followed by several very rough-looking
figures in high hats and rude Sunday suits. Each as he
entered doffed his hat, with a nod of solemn greeting to
Uncles Mark and Luke. The tall man paused in the
centre of the room and breathed heavily, while Uncle
Mark rose to receive him. He was evidently expected.

The tall man in black, a retired tradesman, knov^n in
the neighbourhood as ' Brother Brown,' was the leader of the
sect known as the 'United Brethren,' of which Uncles
Mark and Luke were lowly members. He was a person
of some importance and some property, but, having no
wider field in which to practise his feats of piety, he was
content every Sunday to visit the row of cottages, and,
gathering his satellites together in one house or another,
discourse to them on the lights and shadows of another
world.

After the keen glance into the room, Brother Brown
gave his whole hand to Uncle Mark, and the tips of his
fingers to Uncle Luke, nodded grimly to Madeline, and
sinking on the sofa, covered his face with large red hands,
and sank into deep silence. This manoeuvre was followed
by all the others present except Madeline.- Each covered

16 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

his face with his hand, and took a gentle header, so to
Bpeafe, into himself. If we may continue the metaphor, all
remained under water for many minutes. The effect was
awe-inspiring.

At last Brother Brown uncovered his face and came
up refreshed ; the other men emerged one by one.

' Brother Peartree,' he said, addressing Uncle Mark,
' are we all here ? '

' Yes, sir,' answered Uncle Mark, while his blue eyes
wandered over the group. ' Here be Brother Strangeways,
Brother Smith, Brother Hornblower, Brother Billy Horn-
blower, Brother Luke Peartree, and myself. Not to speak
of little Madlin— she axed to come in, and a child can't
begin too early.'

Brother Brown coughed heavily and looked at the
kitchen door, through which came at intervals a dull
clangour as of pots and pans.

' Then I suppose,' he said, ' Sister Peartree is still
obdurate. "Will she not join our little gathering, and listen
for once to the words of healing ? '

Uncle Mark looked very red and uncomfortable, and
jerked his thumb awkwardly towards the door.

' Never mind the missus to-day. Brother Brown — she's
had a heap o' worrit during the week, and the fact is, she
ain't just tidy enough to come into the best parlour.'

Brother Brown's heavy brow darkened.

' " Six days shalt thou labour," ' he said. ' Well,
brother, you are the head of your own house, and I leave
our unregenerate sister to you. Let us pray.'

Thereupon all, including Madeline, knelt down, while
Brother Brown exercised his spirit in a long prayer, with
variations and expressions of sympathy in the form of low
groans and ejaculations from his companions — ^who had all
again (to resume a former metaphor) retired under water.
Emerging once more, and receiving a signal from Brother
Brown, Brother Billy Hornblower, an overgrown young
bargee of twenty, began a homely hymn, in which all the
others gruffly joined.

Pilot the boat to the City of Jesus,
TJp witli the tide, though there's danger afloat,

Far up the stream lies the City of Jesus,
Dark is the night, hut we'll pilot the boat.

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 17

Chobus.

Pilot the boat, mates ! pilot the boat!
Hark, the wind rises — there's danger afloat-
Courage I for up to the City of Jesus,
Steadily, safely, we'll pilot the boat.

See, mates, the lights of the City of Jesus,

Steer for them Tights, thro' the dangers afloat—

Up to the wharves of the City of Jesus,
Ere the tide turns, we must pilot the boat,

CHOEtrs.

Pilot the boat, mates ! pilot the boat !
Hark, the wind rises — there's danger afloat —
Courage ! and up to the City of Jesus,
Steadily, safely, we'll pilot the boat.

As the music grew louder, the clatter in the kitchen
increased, to the obvious dissatisfaction of Brother Mark.
The hymn ceased, and Brother Brown delivered a short
sermon, founded on the text, ' Those that go down to the
sea in ships,' which was felt to be especially suitable to
those who went down the river in barges.

After this, Brother Mark rose, and in a few brief
words, interspersed freely with Scriptural quotations,
addressed the Brethren, taking for his theme the sacred
character of the day, and greatly troubling the soul of little
Madeline by gloomy references to dead sinners in their
graves.

After a short address to the same effect from Brother
Strangeways, a waterside worthy with a very weather-
beaten face and a very, weather- wise sort of oratory, and
another hymn from Brother Billy Hornblower, the service
was concluded. •

Then, as a concluding solemnity, all shook hands, and
the conversation suddenly grew secular.

' Going down with the tide i' the morning, mate ? '
asked Brother Strangeways. ' It be high water at four,
and we be loaded since day afore yesterday.*

' Where for, mate ? ' asked Uncle Mark.

' Down right away Southam,' was the reply.

' Well, matSj I be anchored at home with the old woman .
till Monday, and then I goes up with first flood to Crewshara
Basing

18 MABTTRDOM Of MADELINE.

'Lime?' asted Brother Strangeways, sententiously.

' Lime it is,' answered Brother Mark, and forthwith,
the talk became professional.

In the meantime, Brother Brown had drawn from his
pocket several loose leaves or tracts, a species of torpedo
which he was in the habit of dropping surreptitiously
wherever he went, for the confusion of recalcitrant and
unrepentant sinners. Selecting three of these, each of
which had special reference to the forlorn spiritual con-
dition of a person of the other sex, he proceeded to pin
them on the parlour walls — one over the Shepherdess on
the mantelpiece, a second under the picture of the Prodigal
Son, a third under that of Susannah and the Elders. "When
this was done he shook hands with Uncle Mark, nodded to
Uncle Luke, and passed out of the house ; the other men,
each with a ' Good night, mate,' for each of the two Pear-
trees, immediately followed, solemnly, in single file.

No sooner had the street door closed than Mrs. Pear-
tree, with the sleeves of her gown tucked up to the elbow,
entered the precincts of the chamber. Scorn was in every
lineament of her countenance, but directly her eyes fell
on the parlour walls, the scorn deepened to wrath.

' Brother Brown's been at them walls again,' she cried.
I wonder at you, Mark Peartree, to sit still and see him
do it. Tracts agin your own wedded wife, stuck on the
walls of her own best parlour — oh, I'd " tract " him ! '

As she spoke, she made a dash at each of the papers in
succession, and tore them angrily away.

' My lass,' said Uncle Mark, gruffly, ' read 'em — they're
leil for your convarsion.'

'Stuff and rubbish!'

' Salvation ain't rubbish, mother, and this here earth's
a wale. A wale it is 1 And let me tell you, tho' you are
my missus, it don't become you to put Brother Brown so
much about. Why, while we was a-singing, I heard you
clattering the dishes like a barge a-heaving anchor, and I
see Brother Brown looking at the door out of the corner of
his eyes. No, my lass, it don't become you, and it ain't
settin' a good example to little Madlin, who may be a wessel
herself by and by.'

' Never, if I can help it,' answered the woman. ' We've

MAR'ITRBOM OF MADELINE. ,19

wessels enough in our family, what with you and TJnele
Luke. , Look at the mark o' the dirty muddy feet on the
clean carpet. I wish you'd meet outside^ or in some other
house but mine.'

' And I wish you'd join us — it'd do you a power of
good.'

Mrs. Peartree's only answer was to toss her head and
walk back into the kitchen. Uncle Luke followed very
crestfallen and pitiful at the domestic disagreement ; while
Uncle Mark remained in the parlour, and showed the pic-
tures in Foxe's ' Book of Martyrs ' — a precious tome of
tremendous antiquity — to Madeline. The child shuddered
as she saw on every page flame consuming those who testi-
fied to the truth in evil times.

' Uncle Mark,' she said, ' do they ever burn people
nowl '

' Not in this here world, my lass; only in t'other. And
even then only the wery bad ones — them as hates their
neighbours, and can come to no manner o' good without
burning 1 '

Madeline did not answer, but she thought of Aunt Jane,
who was the very essence of gentleness and good nature,
but who was made utterly unregenerate by the intensity
of her hate for Brother Brown.

CHAPTER IV.

UNCLE MAEK PARTS WITH THE OLD BARGE.

When Madeline slipped from her bed on the Tuesday
after Easter Monday, drew aside the chintz curtains from
her little window and looked forth, she was astonished to
see that the sunshine of the preceding days had been
followed by a drizzling rain. The river looked black and
very solemn a& it slipped between its sedgy banks ; the
marshes, turning a white face to the sullen sky, looked
dreary enough as they drank in the falling rain, and the
red tiles on the houses of Grayfleet were redder than ever
with the ceaseless washing of the showers.

She had slept heavily, but had not yet wholly recovered
C2

20 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

from the depression caused by the preaching of the past
few days, and of so many hours spent in the sanctuary of
the best room.

She dressed hastily, ran donn stairs, and peeped into
the parlour at the ' weather cottage.' Alas ! Joan was
under shelter, and Darby was outside. So it was to be a
wet day indeed 1

The house was very quiet. The front door stood open
and a clammy breeze swept into the passage and kissed
her cheeks. The parlour had been cleared out an hour
before by Aunt Jane's industrious hands, and was carefully
prepared for next Sunday. But a clear fire burned in the
kitchen, casting its light on the bright paven floor, and
upon the buxom figure of Aunt Jane herself, who stood
by the table preparing breakfast.

' Eh,^ bless tlie child, how you did make me jump ! '
she exclaimed, as Madeline put her head in at the door,
' Come, lass, and get your breakfast ; 'tis near time you
were starting for school.'

After bestowing a hearty kiss on Mrs. Peartree's sun-
burnt cheek, Madeline took her seat at the table ; then
suddenly looking round she asked : —

' Why, Aunt Jane, where be Uncle Luke ? '

' Gone away two hours or more wi' Uncle Mark ; they
sailed up wi' the tide an hour afore thou was out o' thy
bedl'

' Gone to London without me. ! ' cried Madeline, her
large eyes filling with tears. ' Uncle Luke did promise to
take nie with him this time ! '

' There, there, ha' done wi' your crying, like a good
lass ! ' said Aunt Jane, soothingly. Your Uncle Luke he
did want to take ye, but I would have none on't this
woyage. A pretty like morning to take you from your
bed ! — why the rain was falling and the wind blowing
enough to give you your death. But if you are a good
lass and learn your lessons well you shall go next time.
They'll bring down the barge to-morrow, and likely they'll
be for taking her back o' Thursday. Then you shall go.'

With this assurance Madeline was fain to content her-
self. She had been on the barge once or twice when it
had lain in Grayfleet basin, opposite the ferry ; she had

MAM ma AM OF MADELINE. 21

Been it spread out its great red wings and glide along the
track of the river — until it looked like a great black swan
— passing silently between the marshes, and fading behind
the grey mist which for ever hung about them like a cloud ;
and her childish imaginations had often conjured up pic-
tures of the strange scenes towards which the great black
swan was drifting. London was to her the great world,
the mysterious city, so different to the dark slimy river
and low-lying marshes of Grayfleet. Ever since she could
remember, this magic word ' London ' had been the one
which had ever urged her on to good deeds, the final goal
to which all her virtuous deeds were to lead. Whenever
she was bad, Aunt Jane never forgot to repeat the awful
■words —

' There, Madlin, if you can't be a better lass, you shall
never go to London with me and Uncle Mark.'

And when she had been unusually good she never
failed to hear the timeworn promise —

' You've been downright good ! You shall go to
London with me, and see the great waxwork wi' the kings
and queens', and the Sleepin' Beauty as large as life.'

When this magical visit was to be paid seemed some-
what indefinite. That Aunt Jane was strongly opposed to
what she called ' gadding about,' may be gathered from
the fact that during the six-and-twenty years of her
married life she had spent only two days out of her own home.
But Madeline had been content to hope and wait on — and
dream over the many things she would do when at length
the happy day did come. Just before Easter, however,
she went half wild with ecstasy — for Uncle Luke in the
exuberance of his gratitude to her for not laughing at him
when his curiosity induced him to cut open a cheap con-
certina, 'to see where the music came from,' promised to
take her immediately on to the barge and show her himself
the wonderful sights of the great City.

It was a great blow to Madeline to learn that her
uncles had departed to. the magical place without her, but
by the time she had finished her breakfast the sadness
caused by the disappointment had worn away. She
bestowed another impulsive kiss on Aunt Jane's brown
cheek, and taking her books under her arm, trotted off

22 MARTIRDOM OF MADELINE.

gleefully tlirougli the rain towards the great red-brick
public school where most of her days were spent.

She was wonderfully light-hearted all day, and -when
evening came she firmly refused Polly Lowther's invitation
to take another dancing lesson, and trotted home to keep
Aunt Jane company. She found the kitchen neat and
clean as usual, with plates sparkling on the dresser, dishes
smiling from the walls, and Mrs. Peartree sitting in their
midst with a skein of worsted round her neck, and her
busy fingers darning Uncle Mark's guernsey. When
Madeline came she laid her work aside and got the tea.
The two sat down together,

'Madlin, what in the world be you a-laughing at?,'
asked Aunt Jane presently, astonished at the continual
outbursts and half-smothered laughter of the child.

But for the life of her Madeline would not tell — she
only knew that she felt within her a strange hysterical sort
of joy which would not be suppressed. Everything made
her laugh ; the gleaming dishes, the glancing firelight, the
cat purring on the hearth, Aunt Jane's sunburnt face, and
even her looks of astonishment and frowns of reproach.

Mrs. Peartree looked distressed ; for she was supersti-
tioiis.

' As sure as you're alive, Madlin,' she cried reprovingly,
' that laugh o' yourn means no good. I mind the day my
poor brother Jim were drowned dead — I was laughing like
a mad thing afore I got the news. Them as laughs i' the
morning will cry before night, I'm thinking.'

At this solemn warning Madeline's hilarity received a
sudden check, only to burst out again with renewed ve-
hemence.

' 'Tis not on account of bad news. Aunt Jane ! ' she
said, ' 'tis because Pm soon going with Uncle Mark to
London ! '

But Aunt Jane was not to be convinced. She gravely
shook her head, and a few hours later when she put the
child to bed she said : —

' There, Madlin, try to go to sleep, do, and give o'er
that giggling— 'tain't nature for a child to laugh so— and
'twill take all the sleep from my eyes wi' thinkin' o' my
poor dear brother that's gone to heaven.'

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 23

Madeline promised implicit obedience, and nestled her
dark little head into the snowy pillow. When she found
herself alone, she slipped from her bed, drew aside the
■window curtain and looked out, half expecting to see the
great black barge sail, like a spectre, through the hazy mist
of rain. But no such vision appeared — the faint ray of
the young moon showed her the silently sleeping river,
through the silvery threads of rain which still fell from the
ever-darkening sky.

' Uncle Mark, Uncle Luke I ' exclaimed Madeline, clap-
ping her hands, ' make haste and come home, and I'll try
not to laugh any more.'

At that moment the barge, with Uncles Mark and Luke
on board, was gliding slowly up the river, ten miles away.
The wind had been fair all day and the barge had made
good speed, but as night came on and the rain fell faster,
the breeze completely died.

The barge lay heavily on the shining river, with the
great red sail flapping listlessly above and black shadows
all around. They had hoisted the' side-lights, and now and
then through the impenetrable blackness a faint light an-
swered them — this was the only indication of human life
which came to them at all.

Uncle Luke was at the helm, peering with his small
keen grey eyes into the blackness ; and Uncle Mark was
below, eating his supper. Presently the latter passed his
red night-capped head out of the hatchway, and gave e
sharp glance around him ; then his whole long body
emerged, and he strolled to Luke's side.

' Well, mate,' he said, ' there don't seem much wind,
and I'm a-feared there ain't much a-coming ; suppose you
go and turn in 7 '

But Uncle Luke shook his head decidedly.

' No, no, Mark ! ' he answered ; ' reckon you're more
knocked up nor what I be. Just you turn in for a bit
while 'tis calm — and when the wind comes I'll sing out.'

.After a little more discussion as to which should get
the first spell of sleep, Uncle Mark descended to the cabin
and Luke was left alone.

It was very dreary above, very dark and wet; but
Uncle Luke, who was generally in a happy state of mind,

24 MARTYRDOM OF UABELIITB.

seemed quite contented. He grasped the tiller firmly in
his hard, horny hand, and fixed his eyes with wonderiul
keenness upon the moving lights around him.

There was scarcely any wind at all now, and the barge
lay like a log ; but ever and anon she was lifted up as on a
bosom in gentle breathing, while the great sail flapped
listlessly above, and the side-lights shone out like glimmer-
ing stars in the darkness, and flashed their brightness at
the sky which loomed so darkly overhead.

An hour or so passed thus, and then the rain gradually
cease'd to fall, the black in the sky began to float gently on
before a cold, light wind, which bellied out the sail, swung
the heavy boom over the side, and made the barge glide
softly on.

Uncle Luke,, holding the tiller more firmly, rapped
sharply on the deck with his hob-nailed shoes, and in a
very short space of time Uncle Mark emerged, fresh and
active, from the cabin hatchway.

* Ah, we shall get a goodish bit o' wind before morn-
ing, mate,' he said as he took possession of the tiller ; ' get
the sheets clear, Luke, we mustn't lose much time i' work-
ing round ; — remember the old barge ain't been over spry
sin' she got water-logged, and there be goodish bit o' traffic
here.' .

Uncle Luke trotted aft obediently, and now that Mark
had relieved him of all responsibility, he turned his mind
again to solve the great problem which had been worrying
him ever since he left home — ^whether he should take
Madeline a present from the great City, or allow her to
buy it for herself when she got there.

While he was speculating thus, his eyes were dreamily
surveying the scene around him, and his hands were busy
hauling in the sheets, for the breeze was coming more and
more ahead, and less upon the quarter.

As the night passed off and day began to dawn, the
breeze grew fresher and fresher, until it spread quite
fiercely over the surface of the water, driving it up into
little crisp wavelets fringed with foam.

The thick black clouds had drifted westwardsj and
left the east a mass of scarlet and grey. The landscape was
still dim, as with distance, and the light was of that palpi.

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 26

tating silvern kind whicH is neither daylight nor moon-
light.

They had left the low-lying marshes of Essex far behind
them, and already they could see dimly in the distance, like
a cloud brooding over a mountain peak, the smoke which
for ever rises above the great City.

The river now seemed alive with traffic, barges beating
onwards, laden almost to the water's edge — others running
down — steam tugs and ocean steamers, blackening the air
with smoke — all twining in and out, passing and repassing,
in a bewildering maze.

Uncle Mark still grasped the tiller, and though he per-
formed hia task with skill, it was a difficult job. The
bends of the river were innumerable ; often the wind came
dead ahead ; the barge was an unwieldy sailer at all times,
and now she was overloaded into the bargain. Once or
twice Uncle Mark, miscalculating her power of ' coming
about,' had brought her into danger, and had a narrow
escape from collision. Then the river grew clearer and the
wind came straight on the quarter. She scudded onward
merrily, and the water all round her was white with foam.

' Look out, Mark, look out 1 ' cried Uncle Luke pre-
sently, and Uncle Mark, stooping to look under the red
mainsail, saw that a steam-tug was swiftly steaming down
on their course.

' She's straight ahead. Ain't ye goin' to keep away ? '
screamed Uncle Luke, for the whistling of the wind was
deafening.

Mark noted the speed of the barge, then measured the
distance between the two.

' All right, mate,' he shouted, ' we'll clear.'

The barge sped on, the tug advanced quickly, Uncle
Mark watched, carelessly at first, then anxiously. The tug
was woefully near ; by swerving slightly from her cours?
she could have passed by the barge's stern — by keeping
steadily on she seemed likely to cut it through the middle.
Uncle Mark, concluded that the tug would clear him ; the
tug calculated that the barge must ' keep away ; ' and she
came straight on.

A collision seemed unavoidable, when Uncle Mark
screamed :—

26 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

' Haul in the main sheet ! ' and, with a cry, he put-
down the helm.

He had jibbed her as the only chance of escape. The
barge swept round before the shrieking wind with her bow-
sprit within a few inches of the tug's side, quivering through
and through as she heeled over, with a thunder crash, almost
wrenching out the mast. Then there was a crash, like the
bursting of a cannon, a great splash in the water — a shout
from the tug.

Uncle Luke, who had been thrown flat on his face,
scrambled to his feet to find the tiller abandoned, the great
boom in two, the mast bending like a reed, and Uncle
Mark — gone 1

Abandoned by the helmsman, the bai-ge swept round
into the wind, with her great sails flapping uselessly, and
her whole fabric like a drifting wreck.

Confused by the accident and the thunderous sound ot
shroiids and sails. Uncle Luke, who could not at any time
get his ideas to work quickly, gazed about him for a few
moments in horrified despair — then he saw that the tug,
having reversed her engines, was close upon .the barge,
and that a boat which she had put out was rowing swiftly
towards a figure which was floating, apparently lifeless, on
the waves — the figure of Uncle Mark. Dead ? It seemed
BO— the body was moveless, the face livid, and it floated
without a struggle.

Suddenly Uncle Luke became aware that the deck of
the barge was withdrawing itself fi:om his feet. The shaking
of the mast had wrenched open the timbers — the water was
pouring in like a torrent, the barge was rapidly sinking.
He leapt into the punt which floated behind, cut the painter
with his knife, and, utterly unmindful of the barge, pulled
rapidly to the spot where they were rescuing Uncle Mark.

They had got him into the boat by this time, and he
lay in the stern motionless, his cheeks ashen grey, his lips
bloody, his eyes half closed.

With a wild cry like that of a child, Luke leapt into
the boat, abandoning his own, seized the cold wet hand,
smoothed back the dripping hair, and began to cry and moan.

'Mark, mate, open your eyes,' he cried. 'What ails
you ? — don't you know Luke — ^your brother Luke ? '

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 27

Bvjt Mark answered neither by sign nor word — a
splinter of the boom had struck him senseless, and almost
killed him at a blow.

' We'd best take him aboard,' said one of the men ;
' see, the barge is sinking fast.'

As he spoke the barge settled down and disappeared,
leaving only the point of her topmast visible above the
waves. But poor Luke thought nothing of the vessel ; his
thoughts were full of the injured man.

' Where do ye live, mate 7 ' asked one of the sailors from
the tug.

' At Grayfleet, master,' answered Luke, sobbing, and
still chafing the cold limp hand. ' And oh, mates, do take
him aboard, and get him home quick, and then mayhap he
won't die.'

The men agreed to take the two men on board, espe-
cially as their course lay past Grayfleet. Nevertheless, as
they looked on the face of Uncle Mark, they firmly be-
lieved it to be the face of a corpse. But after they had
got him aboard the tug, stripped him of his wet clothes,
and administered some restoratives, he heaved a little sigh,
and opened his eyes.

'Luke, mate,' he said, recognising his brother, 'try and
say a prayer for me. I doubt I'm a dead man 1 '

CHAPTER V.

UNCLE MAEK SAILS HP THE SHINING EIVEK.

All that night Madeline, sleeping peacefully, had been
dreaming happy dreams. Her little feet had been pattering
through the busy streets of the Golden City ; her won-
dering eyes had been feasted with all the gay sights, her
ears with all the gay sounds, which the wondrous ways
afford. When she awoke in the morning, she was a little
disappointed, and a good deal astonished, to find herself in
her little room at home.

It was broad daylight, and Madeline thought it must be
late ; Mrs. Peartree stood at the window, gazing dreamily
forth. Madeline lay for a time and watched her ; then she
Bald suddenly ; —

28 MAUTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

' What are you looking at, Aunt Jane ? '

At the sound of the voice the woman tuined, and bent
to impress her usual kiss on the flushed little cheek on the
pillow.

' Get up, Madlin,' she said, ' 'tis close on eight o'clock,
and you'll be late for school again.'

' What were you looking at 7 ' reiterated Madeline,
after returning the caress.

' Nought, lass, nought — 'twas only one of them little
steam tugs that stopped off the ferry and sent a boat ashore
— but now the boat has gone back again, and the tug has
steamed away.'

' What did it stop for ? ' asked Madeline, rising on her
pillow.

' Bless the lass, how can I tell 7 for nought that con-
sarns us, be sure. There, get up quick, and I'll cut the
bread and butter.'

So saying, she departed, and Madeline, slipping from
the bed, began to dress herself. She had pretty nearly
completed her task, and had her arms raised, and her frock
suspended above her head, when the sound of voices
reached her from below.

She listened, and recognised the tones of Uncle Luke.
Her heart bounded, her cheek flushed, a minute afterwards
she flew down the stairs, thrusting her arms into the wrong
sleeves, and alighted, radiant, panting, and half-dressed, on
the kitchen floor.

It was Uncle Luke sure enough, but how strange he
looked ! His weather-beaten cheeks were ghastly — his
nervous fingers worked at a big hole in his guernsey, he
stared about him in perplexed silence, but when Madelitie
entered he quietly sat down and burst into tears.

' It wam't no fault o' mine, mother,' he sobbed ; ' don't
think it ! He went on hisself, he jibbed the old barge
hisself, and that's how it all came about.'

Mrs. Peartree looked aghast, and her cheeks gradually
grew pale too.

'Mercy onus, Luke, can you not speak?' said she,

irritably. ' What's happened to Mark ? Is he hurted ^

is he— killed ? '

As she spoke she grew sick at heart with apprehension,

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 29

ftnd turning at a heavy sound of footsteps came face to face
with her husband. He lay upon a stretcher covered with
rugs and blankets, and carried by one or two of the
Brethren who used to meet in the parlour on Good Friday.
His face was deathly pale, but his eyes wandered restlessly
about, and when they lighted on his wife's face they
gleamed with recognition. He smiled faintly, and stretched
towards her a trembling hand,

' Don't 'ee cry, mother,' he said, seeing that her lips
trembled and her eyes grew dim ; then, seeing Madeline
in the background ready to spring upon him, he added
feebly, ' Don't come a-nigh me, little Madlin — I'm a'most
worn out.'

Mrs. Peartree was a woman of strong emotions, but she
had a wonderful ' power of self-control. She resolutely
choked back the rising desire to scream and fall into hys-
terics — and laying her brown hand on her husband's cold
wet brow, said quietly but firmly : —

' Why, Mark, Mark — what's to do 7 I never thought
to see my man brought back to me like this.'

Then motioning Madeline to keep back, she had Uncle
Mark carried into the bright warm kitchen, where the
breakfast was set, and, bj-inging in the horsehair sofa from
the parlour, drew it up beside the fire, and had him placed
thereon.

She had need of her resolution, for all poor Uncle Luke
could do in this time of trouble was to sit in a corner and
cry like a child, asserting, with strange vehemence, that he
had no hand in the disaster, while Madeline, as if for
sympathy, sat by his side and cried too.

The movement and excitement seemed to have com-
pletely overpowered Uncle Mark ; no sooner did he get
upon the couch than he sank back with his eyes closed,
and seemed to breathe his last.

Meantime one of the Brethren had run oflF for the
doctor, while another held a glass containing a little whisky,
and Mrs. Peartree, taking the drooping head under her
armf poured between the livid lips a few drops of the
spirit. At this he seemed to revive a little— he opened
his eyes, again recognised his wife, and fixed his gaze on
hers.

so JUTARTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

In a few minutes the messenger returned, flushed and
panting from his run. The doctor wasn't at home, he
said ; he had gone to visit a patient several miles away ;
when he returned they would send him on.

Uncle Mark listened, smiling faintly, then he said : —

' Ah, I don't want ne'er a doctor, mate. I've got my
physic at last, Lord knows.'

'Mark, Mark, don't 'ee talk so,' said Mrs. Peartree,
almost breaking down.

But Uncle Mark smiled faintly again, and reached
forth his trembling hand towards her.

' Mother,' he said, ' 'tain't no use denying of it, I'm a-
going away. That there spar did the job for me — ^but
nobody's to blame for it, only me ; ' then, as his wandering
gaze fell upon his brother, who sat sobbing in a comer, he
asked suddenly : —

' Luke, mate, what's come o' th' old barge ? '

' She be clean sunk, mate,' returned Luke, dashing
away the tears with the back of his rough, weatherbeaten
hand. ' She be sunk out there in the river, up to Southam
Beacon.'

' She was a good wessel,' said Mark, faintly ; ' many's
the year we sailed her, you and me. And she be sunk at
last 1 '

' O, mate,' cried Uncle Luke, piteously, ' don't take on
about that. We'll get her up again, but if you go and
die we shall all be adrift together — ^little Madlin, and
mother, and me, and all our hearts '11 be broke.'

Uncle Mark did not reply ; he lay back with closed
eyes, his breathing was laboured, and the hand which lay
in his wife's turned cold as stone.

For a moment Mrs. Peartree's heart sank in dread, for
she thought that he was dying, but she neither spoke nor
moved ; she only clasped the hand a little tighter in her
o^vn, and let the scalding tears run down her cheeks.

It was a sorrowful group, and the warmth and com-
fort of the surroundings seemed to make the sorrow ot
parting more keen. There was a death-like silence in
the room, the ticking of the old Dutch clock in the comer
rang out bell-like and clear, and between the ticks came
the stifled sobs of Madeline and Uncle Luke. The kettle

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE, 81

waa singing on the hob, the cat purring on the hearth, and
the sun -rays creeping in through the window touched the
bowed heads of those about the sofa, and laid a soft caress,
ing hand on the child's trembling form.

Presently Uncle Mark opened his eyes, and rousing
himself suddenly, gazed wildly about him.

' Luke, mate,' he said, ' that warn't right about the old
barge. No, no, she bean't sunk. Why look, there she be
a-sailing up to the bridge — only her sails be white — so
white — and there be a chap in white at the helm. What's
that noise ? It be like a steamboat's whistle i' the fog.
Oh, if my head warn't so dazed-like I could hear it — but I
be kind o' stupid to-night. Give me a light ; it's black dark.'

' Uncle Mark, it's morning,' said Madeline, creeping to
his side. ' Dear, dear Uncle Mark, can't you see the sun ? '

But Uncle Mark did not seem to hear the child's voice.
His eyes were fixed on vacancy, or, rather, on some vision
unbeheld of eyes.

' Look out there ahead,' he said faintly. ' There be a
white barge coming down with the wind on her quarter,
and the waters all black beneath her. Look, there be folk
in white standing on her deck and singing. Hark I that
be Brother Billy Hornblower's voice, sure — ly?'

Brother Hornblower, who indeed stood near, turned
pale at the mention of his name.

' He think's it's me a-singing,' he observed, brushing
his sleeve across his eyes ; and he added, bending gently
over Uncle Mark, ' Will I sing a bit of a hymn, Brother
Peartree ' '

* Aye, aye,' murmured Uncle Mark, closing his eyes.

Whereupon Brother Hornblower, clasping his hands
before him and looking on vacancy, commenced to sing in
his own peculiar style part of a hymn which was very
popular with the Brethren of the river : —

Up the shining river,

Sailing ■with the tide,
Jesus is my pilot,

Jeans is my guide.
■ Steer the 'wessel, Jesus,

Steer it night and day.
To the Golden City

Tar, far a\pay.

ii MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

See how hard 'tis blowing.

There'll be win 1 to-night-
Tremble not, my brothers,

He -will steer us right.
Steer the ■wessel, Jesus,

Steer it night and day,
To the Golden City

Far, far away.

While the hymn lasted, Uncle Mark remained lying in
his wife's arms as if asleep — he remained so for some time
after the hymn was done. The kettle went on singing, the
cat went' on purring, and the clock seemed to tick with
more bell-like clearness than before. When he again
opened his eyes the old wandering look had passed away.

' Do you know me, Mark, dear ? ' asked his wife.

' Aye, mother — I know ye all. There be Luke — there
be little Madlin — and that be Brother Billy Homblower —
I've been a-dreaming that he was a-singing to me.'

' And so I were, Brother Peartree,' exclaimed the mu-
sician softly.

' Was ye now 7 ' said Uncle Mark, smiling gently.
' Well, mate, I take that as wery kind.'

He closed his eyes again. Brother Horbblower turned
his simple face to Mrs. Peartree and whispered : —

' There be another werse. Sister Peartree — shall I sing
it ? He seems to feel it kind o' soothin', and,' he added
eagerly, ' them's blessed words.'

Mrs. Peartree nodded ; she could not speak, for her tears
choked her ; and the thin but musical voice piped again : —

Who's afraid when Jesus

Like an angel stands,
Holding sheet and tiller

In His holy hands ?
Steer the wessel, Jesus,

Steer it night and day.
To the Golden City

Far, far away.

When the hjonn ended this time, Uncle Mark opened
his eyes, turned a radiant face to the singer — then he
turned to his wife.

' Up the shining river,' he said. 'Aye, there I be a-
going straight away. Kiss me, mother, and let little

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 33

Madlin kiss me too — I be goin' to Jesus — up the shiuing
river to Jesus, mates. It be all for the best— if it weren't
for you three I shouldn't mind goin'.'

' Oh Mark, Mark,' sobbed his wife, now fairly breaking
down.

' Mother, don't 'ee take on — ^there be one at the helm
as'U look arter you, and Luke, and little Madlin too. He's
taking me away, the old barge be sunk, and I be going up
the river, mates — up the shining ri '

He was silent, and they thought he had passed away.

Those were the last words which Uncle Mark spoke on
earth, but he did not die at once. He lay on the sofa £or
several hours, breathing heavily, like one in a troubled
sleep ; the time dragged wearily on, the day brightened,
then faded, and as the last rays of the setting sun fell
across the floor. Uncle Mark heaved his last sigh. He
passed away like one in sleep, lying in his wife's arms, and
not for several minutes after his last breath was taken did
they know that he was dead.

CHAPTER VI.

MADELINE IS ABOUT TO EEALISE HER DREAM.

Fob several days Uncle Mark lay solemnly silent in the
front parlour. An inquest was held over him, and a
carefiil inquiry made into the manner of his death, the
jury bringing in a verdict to the effect that the people in
the tug were in no respect to blame, and that the fatal
result was entirely ' accidental.'

At last, amid general grief, Uncle Mark was carried to
his last home.

The Brethren, with solemn faces, bore him to his
grave; and when the simple service was over, one of them
stood forward, and, with tears in his eyes, chanted forth
the words of the simple hymn which he had sung to
Brother Mark as he passed away.

Up to this Mrs. Peartree, who stood with the men at
the grave, had borne her burthen well, but no sooner did
she hear the hymn which had ceased, as it were, with her

»

34 MARTTBSOM OF MADELINE.

husband's dying breath, than she wailed and broke down.
For a time all the bitterness of that sudden parting came
back upon her ; she clasped the hand of little Madeline,
who stood by her, and burst into passionate tears.

But she could not indulge her stormy grief for long ;
troubles and necessities clamoured like wolves around her;
and turned her soul sick with a new fear. Now that her
strong husband was gone, the whole weight of their little
household was upon her ; and no sooner was he in hia
grave than she had to speculate upon the future. The
verdict of the jury destroyed all chance of receiving any
compensation from the owners of the tug, and indeed Mrs.
Peartree never dreamed of putting in any claim. Her
husband's earnings had been small, but she had managed
to save a little, enough to keep her for a week or so — ' to
turn herself round,' as she expressed it — while she decided
what was best to be done.

That Luke Peartree was thrown upon her hands she
knew from the moment of her hT:isband'a death. As we
have said, he was generally regarded as a kind of natural ;
and everybody knew that had it not been for his brother
he would never have got work at all. Mark Peartree had
been a skilful bargeman, and in order to secure his services
the barge -owners had been quite willing that he should
sail with his brother as mate. Consequently, Mrs. Pear-
tree knew that it was quite useless for him to seek for work
alone. For a time she was at her wits' end to know what
to do with him.

Suddenly she i-emembered that he had a cousin across
the river in Kent who might be willing to give him work
on a riverside farm.

She wrote, and got for answer that Joss Peartree
wanted an odd hand, and would be glad, for kinship's sake,
to take on ' Cousin Luke.'

Luke cried like a child when the news was told him,
and Mrs. Peartree cried a bit too. It was like another
death, this thought of parting with simple Luke, but what
was she to do ? She could not keep him ; it was as much
as she could do to keep herself — and the only prospect she
taw of doing this was to go out as a monthly nurse, a post
for which she was specially suited. Meantime her litoe

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 35

Btore of money was rapidly diminishing, and each coin that
■was taken out warned her that her household must break
up soon.

After she had cried silently for a time, she resolutely
dried her eyes, and set about comforting Uncle Luke. She
promised that if he would only try to be happy she would
try to visit him once or twice a year — and after she had
earned a little, she would try to rent a small room in Gray-
fleet, and make it a home where Luke could come and stop
again with her. This assurance comforted Luke a good
deal ; at the same time it made him more keenly alive to
what was taking place, and he asked, suddenly —

' Be you a-going to give up the house then, mother 7 *

'Ay, Luke — where be my means to keep it on?'

• And to sell the bit o' fiirniture ? '

'Yes, mate.'

' Then what'll become o' little Madlin? '

Mrs. Peartree glanced uneasily at the child, who was
seated on a footstool by her side ; then motioning Luke to
be silent, she said hurriedly —

' Oh, Til look after Madlin, never fear.'

But a day or so later, when Madeline was gone to
school, Mrs. Peartree went on with the subject as if it had
never been stopped.

'I've been thinking about Madlin, Luke, and I've
decided to send her away too.'

' What ! part wi' Madlin ? ' cried Luke, aghast, and for
a moment it seemed to him that Mrs. Peartree was grow-
ing very hard-hearted, but when he looked up he saw
that her eyes were dim with tears.

' Ay, mate, part wi' our Madlin,' she said, sorrowfully.
' It a'most broke my heart when I thought on't first, but
I'm past that now. 'Twill be for the child's good too.
If she stopped wi' us, she'd get but a -poor bringing-up at
best, bless her ; but if she goes to Mm he'll make a lady
on her.'

''Him, mother?'

"Mr. White, that first brought her to us, and pays to

this day for her keep. He's not her father, nor yet much

kin of hers at all ; but for all that he's a good gentleman,

end will do his duty by her. We'll try him, anyways. If

p2

36 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

he takes her it will be a sore day for me, but a lucky chance
for little Madlin.'

Uncle Liike listened quietly,-and soon endorsed Aunt
Jane's opinion, that the very best they could do for
Madeline was to take her up to London and hand her
over to the care of her natural guardian — the benevolent-
looking gentleman who left her at the cottage when an
infant, and had contributed to her maintenance ever
since.

' Don't let her know nothing about it, Luke,' added
Mrs. Peartree, ' or Lord only knows what she would do.
After she's growed up, bless her, she'd thank us for doin'
it, even if we could help it, which we can't.'

This piece of logic pleased Uncle Luke unmeasurably,
and he went to bed tolerably contented with Aunt Jane's
mode of working, and quite convinced that she was doing
everything for the best.

The succeeding days were very sad ones in the cottage,
and though Madeline was almost overwhelmed with her
grief for Uncle Mark, she could not help wondering at the
stratige conduct of those whom he had left behind. If she
happened to come within arm's length of Aunt Jane she
was certain to be caught up and kissed ; if Uncle Luke's
eye fell upon her, he burst into tears; at meal times she
had three times too much food crammed upon her plate ;
if she approached the fire, her chair was drawn so close as
to almost scorch her. But the crowning point came when
she was told one morning that she was to go to London,
for a day's ' outing ' with Uncle Luke.

It was decided that Luke i^hould take her. ' He had
seen a good deal of the city,' Mrs. Peartree said, 'and
would do the errand better than she.' Luke was quite
contented, so it was settled forthwith.

Despite her bereavement, Madeline could not help
feeling glad at the thought o£ realising her dream at last.
Childish griefs are not very enduring, and at another time
a visit to London would have sent her mad with joy. But
her pleasure was considerably damped when she saw Aunt
Jane cry so, and Uncle Luke look so very sad.

' Madlin, darlin',' cried Mrs. Peartree, embracing her
for the twentieth time, ' you're a-going to see kind friends

MARTTIiDOM OF MADELINE. 37

up in London ; and maybe, if you're a good gii-l, they'll
ask you to stay a bit, and see the wax- work, and all the fine
sights. And if you stay, don't forget your Aunt Jane that
brung you up, and loves you so dear — God bless 'ee,
Madlin ! God bless 'ee, and make a lady of ye — my own
little darling gel ! '

Quite bewildered, the child suffered herself to be led
Bway by Uncle Luke.

After ferrying across the river and walking a mile, they
reached the railway station.

When she got into the train her contentment in a
measure returned. She nestled up to Uncle Luke's side,
stealing her little hand into his, and looked with rapture at
the fields gliding past her so rapidly — at the river with its
shining bends. As she went on her wonder deepened, and
her excitement grew — for she passed little towns, then big
stations covered with, shining pictures, like palaces — until
at length when she felt deep in Dreamland, they glided
under a great arch of glass, and Uncle Luke, exclaiming
' Here we be,' rose up and prepared to alight from the train.

CHAPTER VIL

INTRODUCES A DISTINGUISHED LITERARY BOHEMIAN.

Still lost in wonder, Madeline alighted from the train,
and, clutching Uncle Luke's hand, moved along with the
crowd that was surging out of the station.

Once outside, amidst the din of rattling cabs and
excited passengers. Uncle Luke seemed perplexed what to
do next. He took off his high hat, and scratched his head ;
and this appeared to remind him that he had a paper care-
fully tucked into the hat's lining. So he searched for and
found the paper, on which was written, in a round, clear

hand; —

Mabmadtike 'White, Esq.,
The Den,

Willowtree Eoad,

St. John's Wood.

Ill his perplexity he turned to a policeman, and, with

S8 MAtlTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

his usual grin, showed him the paper. The policeman,
•who happened to be good-natured, informed him that he
must walk across London Bridge, and make the best of his
way to the Bank, where he would get an omnibus which
would take him straight to his destination.

' When you get to the Bank, look for a " City Hatlas"
— you'll see "City Hatlas" written on the outside. You
can't go wrong.'

Thus instructed, Uncle Luke toddled off as fast as his
legs could carry him, and was swept along with the traffic
that sets all day from London Bridge Station over the
great Bridge. Madeline clung to him in amazement and
terror, with her great wistful eyes wide in wonder.

As they passed over the bridge and saw the river
gleaming, she uttered a cry, and would have stopped to
gaze, but her Uncle pulled her along, being far too excited
for explanation or conversation.

In due time they reached the Bank ; and now a fresh
perplexity occurred, for the little man had quite forgotten
the policeman's directions. Madeline, however, remem.
bered, and spying an omnibus labelled ' City Atlas '
hurried him towards it.

He showed his paper to the conductor.

' All right,' said that worthy ; 'jump in.'

And soon they were well afloat in the great stream of
London, with the waters roaring and mingling and crying
around them. Madeline gazed out, and her wonder deep-
ened as she saw the great shining shops, and the innumer-
able horses and vehicles, and the people ever coming and
going, like waves of a sea. She thought it beautiful, a
kind of terrible Fairyland, and it would have given her
perfect pleasure if her heart had not been so full of a
great grief. For the time being, indeed, she almost forgot
her childish trouble in the strange new sense of a vast and
troubled world, of whose mysterious motions she had never
dreamed.

It was a long ride, but it seemed only to occupy a few
minutes. Uncle Luke was silent, crushed by his sorrow
and by the situation ; he held her hand tight, and fixed
his poor sad eyes on vacancy, seeing and hearing nothing,
onl^ conscious that he had a task to perform, and deter*

MARTYtlDOM OP MADELINE. 39

mined, thongli his heart should break, that he would per-
form it to the end.

At last they left the long thoroughfares behind and
came out into a region comparatively green and countri-
fied, with villas of all tastes and sizes ranged on either
side of the road. Here the omnibus stopped, and the
conductor told Uncle Luke to alight, announcing that they
were at the corner of Willowtree Eoad, and that the
address written on the paper must be close by. So Uncle
Luke alighted with Madeline, paid their fare, and stood
hesitating, while the omnibus rolled away.

Willowtree Eoad consisted, from end to end, of de-
tached and semi-detached villas, only variegated at two
of" the comers by public-houses. It was very quiet and
suburban, and as all the trees in the gardens were already
green, and many of them in flower, it looked quite rural
and bright.

Paper in hand Uncle Luke trotted up and down for
some time, in a vain search for the house he sought. The
road was quite deserted, and there was no one whom he
could consult. At last he came against a telegraph boy,
sauntering along and whistling ia the leisurely manner
of those swift Mercuries of -the period.

' I've just come from there,' said Mercury, after in-
Bpecting the paper. ' You see that house with the verander ?
Well, you don't go up the front steps, but walk round to
the side, and you'll see a bell marked " Stoodio " ; ring
that, and ask for Mr. White.'

Thus directed, Uncle Luke approached the house, a
email, semi-detached villa, and passing round, as directed,
to the side, discovered with some little difficulty the bell
in question. Without any hesitation, he rang. Scarcely
had he done so, when the door opened as it were of its
own accord, and he found himself in a dilapidated garden,
face to face with a small building which looked like a
diminutive Methodist chapel. Approaching the door of
this edifice, he was about to knock, when his eyes fell
upon a paper pasted upon it. On this paper was printed
rather than written these words —

Mr. White out of town. Bach tins day week.

40 MAETTRDOM OP MADELINE.

With Madeline's aid Uncle Luke spelt out the inscrip-
tion, and it filled him with complete consternation. There
being no date to the announcement, ' this day week ' was
curiously indefinite, particularly as the paper showed signs
of having been there for a considerable time already.
While he stood gaping and scratching his head the studio
door suddenly opened, and a very small boy with a very
old face, clad in a very dirty page's uniform, made his
appearance.

' Well, what is it ? ' cried this worthy, snappishly.
' Who do you want ? '

Uncle Luke took off his hat respectfully, and handed
over the paper. Strange to sav, the boy would not deign
to inspect it.

' If it's the milk bill, you're to call again next week.
If it's a summons, nobody ain't at home. Which of the
gents is it for ? '

' I'm a-looking for Master White,' said Uncle Luke,
timidly, ' and if you please '

' But he don't please,' answered the boy, with a fierce
sense of grievance. ' He ain't at home. Didn't you see
the paper on that there door ? '

At this juncture another head appeared in the back-
ground, and a pair of human eyes seemed rapidly to in-
spect the intruders. Then a voice said —

' It's all right, Judas. Let 'em come in.'

Thus instructed, the page threw open the door, and
Uncle Luke entered, with Madeline clinging to him. Their
astonishment was considerable when they found themselves
in a large apartment, lighted by glass windows from
above, and full of all the paraphernalia of an artist's
workshop — several easels, two or tlteee lay figures, paint-
ings in various states of completion. Jn one corner stood
a stove, on the top of which was a loaf of brown bread
and a tin coffee pot, and close to the stove was a perfect
hecatomb of egg-shells. Indeed, what with general dust
and debris of all kinds, the entire 'studio' seemed sadly
in need of cleaning out.

Fronting them as they entered was the only tenant of
the apartment — a young man with a very light moustache,
a watery blue eye, and a large amount of unkempt flaxen

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 41

' hair. He grasped a palette in one hand, a paint brush in
the other, and in his mouth he held a black meerschaum
pipe.

' Is it anything I can do for you ? ' he said, with a rather
vacant smile. ' I'm Mr. Cheveley.'

' I want to see Master White,' said Uncle Luke in a
faltering voice. ' I've come all the way from the country,
all along o' Madlin, here. Haven't I, Madlin? If so be
he's away, can't some one fetch him, and tell him Luke
Peartree wants him, and that Uncle Mark's dead, and that
poor Aunt Jane's a widder, and that things has all gone
contrary, and all our hearts is broke ? '

Tears rose in Uncle Luke's eyes, and he stood choking,
while Madeline clung to him and began crying too. The
young man looked at them in astonishment for some
mimitea; then, struck by an idea, he walked rapidly to
an inner door and cried loudly —

' Here, White,'

A sleepy voice answered from within—

'What's the matter?'

' Some one to see you — come, get up ! '

The answer seemed a combination of strong expressions,
combined with inarticulate groans. After listening for a
moment, Cheveley turned to Uncle Luke —

' Here, I say 1 ' he said, with the vacant helpless
manner peculiar to him. ' He's writing in bed, and he
won't rise. You'd better go in and explain your own
business. The little girl can wait here.'

Not without some little fear and trembling, Uncle
Luke released Madeline's hand, and moved with timid
steps into the inner room. It was a very small chamber,
furnished as a bedroom ; that is to say, it contained an
iron bedstead, a washstand, a table, and other conveniences.
A chest of drawers gaping open was covered with articles
of attire in most admired disorder, and other articles were
hung on the walls or scattered about the room.

Perched up on the bed, with an embroidered smoking-
cap on his head, was a gentleman in gold spectacles. He
was writing rapidly with a pencil in a large manuscript
book, and he scarcely looked up as Uncle Luke entered.

But when Uncle Luke, whose heart was full and over-

a MAIITTRDOM OF MADELINE.

flowed at the sight of one whom he believed to be a friend
of the family, trotted over to the bedside and took his
hand, crying like a child, he dropped his notebook and
seemed aghast. Then, recognising his visitor, he questioned
him, and soon knew the whole sad story — of Uncle Mark's
accidental death, of the break-up of the little home, of the
despair of the family, and their conviction that they could
no longer do their duty by Madeline.

' And Madlin's here,' cried Uncle Luke. ' I brung her,
but, Lord, she don't guess wJiy I brung her ; she thinks
she's a-going back. Oh, Mr. White, be a father to her !
She ain't got ne'er another, now her Uncle Mark's dead.'

Mr. White wiped his spectacles, and seemed utterly
stupefied ; at last he nodded, as if he had made up his
mind.

' Give me those trousers,' he said, ' I'll get up.'

In another minute he had slipped into an old pair of
tweed trousers, . a pair of very dirty fancy slippers, and
an old dressing-gown. Thus attired he even looked less
engaging than when composing in bed. His hands were
greatly in need of soap, his whiskers were ra^ed and
ornamented with fragments of yolk of egg, and his face,
which was otherwise kindly and good-humoured, looked
parboiled. Seizing a brush, he went through the formality
of brushing the very minute bunches of hair which
ornamented his bald head, and then, after tf momentary
struggle with his whiskers, led the way into the ' studio.'

Here they found Madeline in high delight, for
Cheveley, seizing a piece of charcoal, had dashed off a
rough likeness of her on a canvas which stood vacant. The
wild locks, the great wistfal eyes, the delicate mouth, were
happily caught, and for the moment the child forgot all her
troubles.

' Look, Uncle Luke,' she cried, running to him and
pointing out the likeness. ' It's me.'

Uncle Luke, still pale and trembling with his great
grief, grinned from ear to ear, and gazed upon the artist in
pathetic admiration. Meantime White stood blinking
benignly through his spectacles ; at last Madeline caught
his look, and returned it with no little astonishment.

• This is Madlin,' said Unele Luke, gently.

MARTTRBOM OF MADELINE. 43

ThTis introduced, Madeline dropped her eyes timidly,
and gave a country curtsey, as she had been accustomed to
do to the magnates of the village.

CHAPTER Vin.

PNCLE LUKE IS BROKEN-EEAETED.

It appeared on explanation' that the notice on the outside
door of the ' studio ' was a common ruse of Mr. Marina-
duke White whenever he desired perfect solitude, and
when the visits of even friends and acquaintances, not to
speak of ambassadors from certain adamantine creditors,
would be considered irksome.

Although White dwelt in a studio, he was not an
artist — not, that is to say, an artist by profession, though
he could paint a little, and had a very pretty feeling for
colour. By profession he was a man of letters ; by special
taste and habit, a writer for the theatre. Some of his less
ambitious plays had been acted with no little idat, and
everybody had thriven through them except the author.
Others had failed, and these failures constituted his glory.
They were really productions of considerable literary
merit. In literary circles White was spoken of as a man
of genius whose mission it was to revive ' the poetical
drama,' but who had fallen on dark days, when the Muses,
having discarded classic drapery altogether, had taken to
fleshings and the can-can.

He was a gentle creature, with as soft a heart as ever
throbbed in human bosom, and as little power of managing
his worldly affairs as of creating a profitable taste for
dramas in ' five acts and in blank verse.' He lived in a
studio, with one artist or another for a companion, not
because the place was necessary for his vocation, but
because he was naturally a Bohemian, and a studio was a
thoroughly Bohemian sort of abode. He was forty years
of &ge, unmarried, and unlikely to marry. The number of
bis follies could only have been measured by the number
of his good deeds, and those were legion. To see him waa
to like him ; to know him was to love him well.

U MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

For years past he had paid a small stipend — not nluch,
but a sharp pinch sometimes to him — for the maintenance
of Madeline. The way in which he had contracted ^his
responsibility was characteristic, and may at once be ex-
plained. A friend of his who was a ' genius ' — that is to
say, an individual who promised prodigies, and on the
strength of his promises, which were never fulfilled, dis-
carded all conventional morality and lived the life of a
shabby Don Juan — had become entangled with a country
girl. Dying penitent, as well as penniless, he confided to
White, who watched by his sick bed like a woman, that he
had betrayed the girl, and that she had given birth to a
child, then about one year old. White promised that he
would seek both mother and child, and help them if pos-
sible. So after putting his poor friend into the ground,
and moving heaven and earth to get a few tender things
about him inserted in the newspapers. White betook him-
self to the lonely seaside village where the widow dwelt.
He found a comely but ignorant girl in a state of compara-
tive destitution, and, to make matters worse, in the last
stage of consumption, brought on by exposure, and neg-
lect. In the course of the interviews which ensued, he
learned such things of his dead friend's treacherous and
selfish conduct as would have shaken his faith in genius
altogether had he been less simple-hearted. A little later
the girl died in his arms, giving him her last blessing and
consigning her little daughter to his care.

After considerable reflection, he decided that the best
course he could adopt with the little one was to find some
good motherly soul, in the mother's sphere of life, who
would rear her kindly. During an artistic excursion to
Grayfleet he discovered Mrs. Peartree, and, after certain
pecuniary preliminaries were arranged, committed the
child to her care. What had been originally only a tem-
porary arrangement presently became fixed and habitual.
Years passed away. Madeline remained with the Peartrees,
who were childless. White, in a very irregular manner,
sent them small sums from time to time; but it had never
occurred to him to take any more serious responsibility in
the matter. He meant the girl to grow up happy in the
sphere to which her mother belonged. Though he had

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 45

beheld her once or twice in infancy, he had for years
afterwards seen nothing of her, only hearing of her ex-
istence through correspondence from time to time.

When, therefore, Uncle Luke turned up in St. John's
Wood, with Madeline under his charge, and explained that
sad events had broken up the little home and left Madeline
helpless on their hands, White was staggered. It was clear
that the Peartrees thought him her natural guardian, and
could not comprehend that he stood in no closer relation-
ship to her than they did themselves.

He looked at Madeline, and was astonished to see her
BO fair and elf-like, with a touch in her eyes of his poor
dead friend, the literary Bohemian. Somehow or other he
had always pictured her as a fat little country cherub,
with very hard cheeks, a pug nose, and ugly feet. As she
gazed at him with her great blue eyes, he felt troubled
more and more.

' You don't remember poor Fred Hazelmere ? ' he said
to Cheveley. ' No, he was gone before your time. But
you've read his "Ballads of Bohemia" — by Jove, sir,
some of them are worthy of the " Buch der Lieder." '
And he added in a whisper, ' That's his child.'

He had led Cheveley aside, and was conversing with
him apart, while Madeline and Uncle Luke sat waiting in
the centre of the studio. ' Look at her face,' he proceeded.
' Never saw such a likeness in my life — ^it quite turns me
over. She looks a wild little thing, don't she ? The man
with her is a sort of natural. It was absurd to think of
Bending her to me, for what on earth can I do with her ?
I'm not her father, after all. Upon my soul, I'm in a
dilemma. I must persuade him to take her back.'

But when White took Uncle Luke aside and tried to
explain matters to him, the little man only began to cry.
The home was broken up, he said ; Aunt Jane's only means
of subsistence was to go out as a monthly nurse ; and he
himself was going to join a distant relation on the coast of
Kent.

' It ain't that we want to lose her,' he asseverated ;
' but oh. Master White, there be no liome for Madlin now.
Our hearts be broke, sir, to part .wi' her ; but we know
you're next door to her father, and a gentleman born.

46 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.*

She'll be a heap better off here tlian ever she was along
of us.'

' Here ? ' gasped the dramatist.

'She's your'n, sir, more than our'n, bless her heart.
We couldn't feed her no more, let alone clothe her, now
Mark's gone to glory ; but you're a gentleman born, and
can bring her up well-nigh like a lady. I brung her,
Master White,' he continued, reverting to his first fear ;
' but I dustn't let her know I'm a-going to leave her — I
dustn't, indeed. She thinks she's a-going back with me.'

' But I can't take her ! ' exclaimed White. ' This is no
place for a child, and even if it were she needs a woman's
care. I really can't think of it ; the very idea's absurd.'

Uncle Luke looked astonished. In his simple judg-
ment, the power of a ' gentleman bom,' like Mr. White,
was unlimited, and he could not fathom the significance of
his refusal.

' She's that good,' he explained gently, ' that she'd be
no manner o' trouble to any, 'cept when she's in her tan-
trums, and they're gone as soon as come. And she's clever,
Master White. I've heerd schoolmaster say that she can
spell like a good 'un, and her writin's as clear as print. I
see her write out the Lord's Prayer on a piece of paper,
and she guv it to her Uncle Mark, and if he'd ha' lived, he
was a-going to get it fi-amed like a pictur' and hung up on
the cabin of the barge.'

This special pleading had little or no effect on White.
He was puzzling his brain what to do. Once or twice he
thought of repudiating the responsibility altogether, but
he was far too good-natured for that. Then he suggested
that Luke should take the child back and leave him to
think it over, but he soon discovered that such a delay
was impracticable.

•Mother said,' explained Uncle Luke, firmly (his sister-
in-law, it will be remembered, had always been addressed
as 'mother * by her husband, and by all the house) — ' mother
said I was to leave her along o' you, causa you was her
best friend ; and mother said you'd never grudge her the
wittles what she eat, for you were a gentleman born. Them
weife her own words. You'd never grudge her the wittles
what she eat, for you was a gentleman born.'

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. ij

' How old is she ? ' asked White, desperately, not that
he had any special reason for asking, but because, in hia
perplexity, he hardly knew what to say.

Uncle Luke cooked his eye, calculating, and after due
deliberation replied —

* Mother says it be just eight year come Whit-Monday
since you brung her to us. She remembers the year well,
mother does, 'cause 'twas the year when her cousin Jim
he was drowned off Woolwich Pier, after he had deserted
and was running away for his precious life ; and they held
a 'quest upon him, and said he was drownded accidental,
and had hisself to blame.'

' Between eight and nine years old,' muttered White,
pursuing his own feeble reflections. ' Is there no place
where she could be put 7 No person who, for a small con-
sideration, would take her in ? '

- Uncle Luke shook his head dolefully. He had never
questioned for a moment but that White would give the
child a welcome, and he was quite incapable of conceiving
the manifold objections there might be to her immediate
adoption.

Things were at this juncture when Madame de Bemy,
who occupied the adjoining house, and from whom White
rented the studio, came in smiling. She was a stout little
old lady, with a very profound respect for her tenant, who
had been useful to her in many ways, as indeed he was
almost invariably to everybody with whom he came in
close contact. To his surprise she cut the Gordian knot
by ofEering to take care of the child on White's behalf.

All this time Madeline had been listening with growing
suspicion. At last the whole truth dawned upon her, and
she burst into lamentation. Clinging to Uncle Luke, she
cried that she would never leave him, and that she would
return to Grayfleet in his company.

It was an exciting scene, over which we have no
intention to linger.

Uncle Luke did not depart that night. They made
him up a bed in the corner of the studio, where he lay
awake tiU morning, weeping and wondering, but still firm
in his desire to see Madeline made into a little lady. The
child herself was taken care of by Madame de Bemy. But

i8 MABTYUDOM OF MADELINE.

she would not depart from the studio until Uncle Luke had
avowed positively that he would be there, waiting for her,
in the morning. His simple promise satisfied her, for never
in all her life had she known him to break his word.

CHAPTER IX.

MADELINE FINDS NEW FRIENDS.

The next day Uncle Luke went away.

Words would fail us to describe the parting. 'I'he
little man wept like a child, and Madeline threw herself,
again and again, into his arms, in a perfect frenzy of
passion. It was terrible to see so fierce a storm shaking
the fragile form of so young a child. Madame de Bemy
led her, sobbing, into the house, and tried in vain to give
her consolation ; but for hours upon hours she wept wildly,
and her little heart seemed broken.

Poor Marmaduke White was utterly at a loss how to
act ; but he had resolved, come what might, to accept his
burthen and bear it as well as he could. Every look,
every gesture of the child, especially during her fierce
access of sorrow, reminded him more and more of his dead
friend. Her weird and elf -like beauty, moreover, appealed
to his strong artistic sense. Yes, he would do what he
could for her, and trust to that Providence which feeds the
literary raven to find him ways and means.

' During his perplexity he found an excellent adviser
in Madame de Berny. The good woman, who had a large
heart for children, entered cordially into his wishes, and at
the end of a long consultation readily imdertook the charge
of Madeline for the time being. She had plenty of leisure
on her hands, the Chevalier de Berny, her husband, a pro-
fessor of music, being from home, teaching, all day, while
her only daughter, an actress at the Pall Mall Theatre,
was engaged every evening, and nearly every day, in the
pursuit of the business and the pleasures of her profes-
sion.

So it was speedily settled; and Madeline was soon in-
stalled, as an informal boarder, in the De Berny household,

MABTYRDUM OF MADELINE. 49

having a little room upstairs next to the gorgeous chamber
occupied by Mademoiselle Mathilde.

The grief of childhood heals quickly, and with child-
hood's inqoiisitiveness Madeline was soon busy observing
the manners and customs of her new friends. Though
her heart was still wild and weary, and though every night
she sobbed as she thought of her happy home at Grayfleet,
hers was too quick and keen a nature to be quite deadened
• by its sorrow.

And Madame de Berny was very kind; even Aunt
Jane could not have been kinder. As to the Chevalier,
who came in late at night and departed very early in the
morning, she found him a fat, fretful, overworked, but
naturally good-hearted little Frenchman, who spent the
whole of his one leisure day, Sunday, in smoking a big pipe
and reading the French journals. But the queen of the
dwelling was Mathilde, a tall, thin blonde, with golden
hair, very fine eyes, and a very hard mouth. She dressed
very loudly and used a great deal of paint and powder ;
her whole style, indeed, was ' fast,' and, though she was a
Frenchman's daughter, her conversation and all her ideas
were vulgarly suggestive of Cockaigne.

Her character, however, was unimpeachable ; she was
iar too calculating and worldly wise to commit herself in
any way. Her parents adored her. She had the best
room in the house, a little study also where she conned her
parts, and these were as the sanctuary of a saint. The
Chevalier was firmly convinced that she was only prevented
by the malice and wickedness of the world from becoming
recognised as a great actress.

' My daughter is too good,' he would say to his friends;
' it is her virtue which keeps her back. If she vere like de
rest of de vomen on your stage, it would be different — ah
del, yes ! De managers are in a conspiracy to give her bad
parts and to break her leetel heart.'

And Mathilde herself was of the same opinion. Her
face was quite worn and haggard with brooding over her
professional wrongs, her heart torn daily by the success of
her rivals and the real or fancied neglect of the public.
Once or twice a week she had violent fits of hysteria,
during which she would think and talk of suicide. Ee-

£

60 mahtthdom op Madeline.

covering from these, she -would eat a hearty dinner and
drink large quantities of bottled stout— to which she was
very partial, chiefly because it was said to be fattening, and
her enemies in the stalls considered her too lean.

In the eyes of Madeline, who had hitherto only known
the coarse beauties of Grayfleet, Mathilde was a vision of
loveliness. The child loved colour and splendour and
beauty, and Mathilde seemed to represent all these. The
actress's bedroom, too, was like a palace of enchantment,
with its delicate rose-coloured curtains, its white French
bed and bedding, its bright carpet, and its delicious per-
fumes.

' Mathilde was not particularly fond of children, but
homage from any one pleased her, and thus it happened
that Madeline became a constant visitor in the sanctuary.
When, one day, Mathilde opened her wardrobe and showed
all her magnificent costumes, both those she used in private
life and those she reserved for the theatre, the bliss of the
sight was almost too much to bear. It was like a glimpse
of heaven itself !

So the weeks passed away, and the new strange life was
growing gradually familiar. The thought of the little
Grayfleet home was stiU bright in the child's mind, and
every night she said a prayer that Uncle Luke had taught
her, and every night she cried when she went over the
beloved names, but her spirit was kindled into a new kind
of feverish activity, such as she had never been conscious
of before.

In the course of her daily visits to the studio, where
even the misanthropic Judas, as he had been profanely
christened on account of his forbidding aspect, now gave
her a welcome, she saw many things which awakened her
wonder. Her previous ideas of Art had been chiefly con-
nected with house-decoration and sign-painting, and she
marvelled much at the creations on canvas of young Mr.
Cheveley. For White she soon contracted a passionate
affection, which deepened into idolatry when the good-
natured Bohemian began, in his idle moments, to teach her
to draw.

The quickness with which she learned the rudiments
of this accomplishment reminded White that her general
education was being neglected altogether.

MAUTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 51

* My dear,' he said to her one afternoon, ' I think I
shall have to send you to school.'

She was standing at his side, looking over his shoulder,
as he ' touched up ' for her a picture of a house which
reeled to one side like the leaning tower at Pisa, a tree or
two like inverted mops, and a very shabby-looking bridge.

She looked at him right in the eyes, which was her
custom.

' I hate school,' she said emphatically.

' So did I at your age, and the child who doesn't always
comes to be hung. But I really think you'd pay for a
little schooling. You write a shocking hand, to begin with.'

' Uncle Luke said it was deawtiful writing, and as clear
as print.'

' Humph ! well, you see, he looked at it from a differ-
ent point of view. I don't question its legibility, which
after all is the first thing to be aimed at, but it wants style.
Then, your grammar is more shady than befits the prot^^e
of a master-stylist, like myself.'

' What's grammar 7 ' asked Madeline, swinging her
right foot irritably. ' Nouns, verbs, " I am," " thou art,"
and all that 1 I hate 'em all.'

White laid down the drawing on which he had been
busy, and took her by the two hands.

' You hate a good many things,' he said mildly. ' Pray,
what do you particularly like ? '

' I like drawing. I like to hear Mamzelle singing the
pretty songs, and trying on her new dresses. I like dancing,
too, and music, and all that. And I like to be here with
you. I like you better than Mr. Cheveley. If I was big
enough I'd marry you, and then you could take me to the
theayter, where Mamzelle goes.'

' Pronounce it theatre,' said White, while his eyes
opened in amused wonder. ' So you are beginning to think
of marrying already, are you ? Precocious child ! And
you'd marry me, would you ? Why, I'm old enough to be
your father, and by the time you are a young woman I
shall be quite on the shelf.'

Madeline surveyed him for some moments critically ;
then she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him
impulsively.

62 MAnrrnDOM of madelinm.

' When I marry you, Mr. White,' she said, ' I'll buy
you a nice wig, and then, you see, no one will know.'

' A wig — the gods forbid ! '

'A beautiful black, like the Chevalier wears. I know
it's a wig, because he takes it off and puts on a nightcap
when he goes to bed.'

White threw back his head and laughed heartily ; then
forcing a serious look into his face, he said —

'Don't let us wander from the subject; I began by
Baying that you must go to school.'

Madeline's face darkened, and her lips pouted.

' I shan't,' she said.

' Come, come, Madeline ! Don't you care to learn ? '

'No.'

' Nevertheless, learning is a physio which you will be
compelled to take. You mustn't grow up a little ignoramus.
English grammar, geography, and — ^yes, by Jove — you
shall learn French and music'

' French ! ' she cried, with a sudden sparkle in her eyes.
' Like Mamzelle talks sometimes to her pa ? '

' Exactly.'

' And music 1 I love music ! And then I shall under-
stand every word they say, and play like Mamzelle on the
piano. Oh, Mr. White, do let me go to school and learn
French and music ! '

All opposition being thus speedily withdrawn, White
determined that Madeline should go to school forthwith.
In his customary fashion, therefore, he dismissed the
subject from his mind; and it is a question how soon he
would have practically carried out the scheme if Madeline
herself had not worried him every day with the question,
' Oh, Mr. White, when am I to go to school and learn
French and music ? ' But after a consultation with the
Chevalier, a school was found in the neighbourhood —
which he himself attended two or three times a week — and
after a slight discussion over terms, which were specially
reduced in her case, Madeline was sent there as a day
scholar.

Once or twice since her translation to London, Made-
line had heard from her foster-mother, who was then going
from house to house as a monthly nurse. Mrs. Peartree

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 63

coulS not write herself, but she sent by deputy many fond
and loving messages, which Madeline answered with letters
a thousand times more passionate. Since the day of their
parting, however, she had heard nothing from Uncle
Luke.

But some few weeis after she went to school there
arrived a letter for her bearing the post-mark of a small
town in Essex, Opening it eagerly, she read as fol-
lows •.' —

Mi dere Madlin, — This comes from uncle Luke, hopping you are
quite wel and a good gel which it leaves me at present. I be ni
art-broke far away from you and mother workinj; on the river down
alonger mi cussin Joss don't kry cos I brung you to London but be a
good gel and give my umble respecs to Mister wite mi dere Madlin
mi dere Madlin there be no bargis in thes parts and neer a brethren
but aples be pourful big and I wish you see the aple-tree in cussin
Joss his garding with luv & kisses & hopping you are a good gel &
my humble respecks to mister wito good bi at present I am ever
fecksonit uncle luke peartree.

P.S. Be a good gel & don't kri cos I brung you.

Many and many a burning kiss did Madeline press on
this simple epistle. She wetted it with her most tender
tears, and placed it beneath her pillow at night, and
carried it about all day in her bosom, to be kissed and
kissed yet again. With a certain intuitive shame, she did
not show it to any member of the De Bemy family, whose
fault was a snobbishness characteristic of shabby gentility,
but she fearlessly confided in Mr. White and let him read
it through. He was touched by its simple affection,
penetrating through the rude orthography to the staunch
and loving soul of the writer ; and he encouraged the girl
to talk to him of Uncle Luke and all her lowly friends.

' Those who did not know him,' he thought, as he
listened to her eager words and watched her flushed face,
' called poor Pred callous. It's a lie 1 He had a noble
heart, and so, thank God, has his little child | '

64 MARTYRDOM OF MAI'ELINE.

CHAPTER X.

A TELEGRAPHIC THUNDEEBOLT.

But. only a few days later, as White sat alone in the
studio working at the scenario of a new play, the door was
thrown open and in rushed Madeline. Her hair was
dishevelled, her dress disordered, her whole face distorted
with passion. Before he had time to speak she threw
herself on a sofa and burst into an agony of tears.

' Madeline ! ' he cried, bending over her, ' what is the
matter ? Why are you not at school ? '

For a time there was no answer, but at last, between
the sobs, the girl, spoke —

' Oh 1 take me home ; let me go back to Grayfleet ! '

White took her hand softly, and spoke to her
soothingly, but his gentleness only made her worse. At
last he yielded to his irritation and insisted on an ex-
planation.

Drying her eyes she sat up and looked at him, and he
was startled by the white determination in her delicate
face.

' Why are you not at school ? ' he repeated.

' Because I've left, and I'll never go back to Bchool
again.'

' Madeline ! '

' It's true, and I want to go home, I won't stay heffe,
and I won't go back to school.'

' But what has happened ? '

Madeline gave a wild hysterical laugh, and her face
assumed an expression of exultation.

' I struck her in the face, Mr. White, and I pulled
down her hair, and when she saw I was angry she was
frightened and screamed. If I had been stronger, I would
have killed her — I would 1 I would ! '

Completely perplexed by this enigmatical tirade, White
quietly took his hat "and walked off to the young ladies'
seminary, which was only a few streets away. Arrived
there, he found everything in commotion and the lady
Buperintejjdent highly indignant,

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 65

It appeared, on explanation, that Madeline, for some
reason unexplained, had, during the midday play hour,
made a savage attack upon a young lady of sixteen, a
parlour boarder excellently connected ; had sprung upon
her with fury, scratched her face, and had clung to her
until torn away by force. The superintendent's mind was
made up : Madeline must not return to the school.

' She is a very violent child. I have again and again
had to rebuke her for fits of passion. I have now dis-
covered, moreover, that her connections are not what I
should wish in members of my seminary. Miss de Castro,
whom she assaulted, is a sweet girl, incapable of provo-
cation. Her papa is in the India Office. She is niece of
Sir Michael de Castro, late Governor of Chickerabad, and
I cannot have her assaulted by a common child.'

White stared silently at the lady, and without a word
strode back to the studio. There, with a severity unusual
to him, he demanded a full explanation. He thus learned
that the fons et origo of all the mischief was Uncle Luke's
letter. By some accident it had fallen from Madeline's
bosom and been picked up by Miss de Castro. That
* sweet girl ' had read it through to a group of the elder
pupils, doing full justice to the orthography, and mimicking,
as far as she could imagine them, the living manners of
the writer. In the midst of her amusement, Madeline had
appeared a;nd demanded her property, which Miss de
Castro immediately thrust behind her back, while she
indulged in a series of witticisms at the expense of Madeline
and all her relations, especially the country correspondent.
This was enough. Almost before she herself knew it
Madeline was at her throat, and in a white heat of passion.
The sweet girl screamed. Madeline was torn away and
thrust violently out of the school-yard gate, but not before
she had recovered her uncle's letter and thrust it into her
bosom. Then she had flown home.

White was greatly perplexed how to act. In his secret
heart he sided with the child, and cursed the cruelty of
ignorance and caste ; but he nevertheless perceived that
fits of passion and violence were not to be encouraged.
So he irowned terribly, and read Madeline a long and
etern lecture on the wickedness of giving up to wrath.

86 MARTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

She heard him out with great attention, and with her
great eyes fixed pathetically on his. At the conclusion of
the harangue, she took out Uncle Luke's letter and quietly
kissed it — then smiled faintly through her tears at the
thought of her wrongs. It was clear that she was quite
impenitent.

Madeline did not go back to school. For some months
she remained at home with the De Bemys ; White, in his
indolent way, postponing the question of where she was to
go next.

He was a good deal occupied at this time with the
adaptation of a new play which was being acted with great
success at the Porte St. Martin, and, as it was necessary to
Bee the play represented by the French actors, he spent
some weeks in Paris. He discovered that by carefully
lopping the leading idea, making the chief female virtuous
instead of vicious, altering the scenes, and turning the
moral upside down, he could make the great drama pure
enough for the sight of the British playgoer. His English
manager approved, sent him a small cheque on account,
and begged him ' to do the trick ' as,quickly as possible.

At this period, therefore, Madeline was thrown more
and more into the society of Mademoiselle Mathilde. That
vision of loveliness found the child useful, sent her on end-
less errands, made of her a sort of companion in miniature,
and extempore lady's maid. Madeline was only too
delighted to serve and worship, and great was her joy when
any of the cast-off splendour fell to her share. One even-
ing Madame de Berny took her to the theatre, on the
occasion of her daughter's ' benefit.' There was a serio-
comedy in which Mathilde played the leading part, and
a burlesque to follow, in which (for that occasion only,
for she generally despised burlesque) she enacted a fairy
prince. Madeline was entranced ; the spell of the foot-
lights came upon her once and for ever.

That night, after they had returned home, and the
Vision had supped well on oysters and bottled stout,
Madeline proffered a request which had lately become a
very common one with her,

' Oh, Mamzelle, let me brush your hair ! '

Mathilde took a sleepy sensuous pleasure in tjjiit part

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 67

of her toilette, and would sit by the hour together under
the soothing manipulation of the brush. So she let down
her golden locks, and placed herself, with her eyes half
closed, before the mirror, while Madeline began her task,
prattling between whiles of the theatre, of all the wonders
she had seen, and of the longing that would possess her
until she saw them again.

' I used to feel like you once,' yawned Mathilde, ' when
I was a dear little thing, with my hair growing down to
my waist, and little satin shoes on my feet, and Pa used to
take me to the pantomimes. Ah, dear, that's over and done.
I hate the theatre.'

' You hate it, Mamzelle ? '

' Yes, and sometimes I hate Pa for ever letting me go
nigh to it. I suppose it all comes of Ma marrying a
Frenchman; for Pa used to teach me to say those long
speeches in rhyme out of the French plays, and then I got
a taste for recitation. But I hate French now, and I hate
the theatre. It's nothing but worry and vexation. There
was only five pounds ten in the stalls to-night besides the
tickets Pa and Ma sold, and the dress circle was not half
full. Did you notice a dark fat man in a private box, who
threw a bouquet to Bliss Harlington 7 '

'Do you mean a gentleman with a hook nose, Mamzelle,
and his fingers all over big rings ? '

' Yes. Well, that was Isaacs, proprietor of the " Even-
ing Scrutator." A nasty beast, always smelling of cigars
and rum-and- water. He hates me because I keep myself
respectable, and he never suffers any one of his critics to
say a good word about me.'

' Who are they, Mamzelle ? '

' The critics ? Tomfools who write in the papers, and
don't know good acting from bad, and if they did daren't
say so. Why, they praise Miss Harlington — who played
" Princess Prettypet " in the burlesque ! '

' Oh, yes,' cried Madeline, in rapture. ' Her in the
pink dress with the spangles and the flowers in her hair.
Oh, wasn't she lovely, Mamzelle ? '

Mathilde tossed her head under the brush, and flushed
with virtuous contempt.

' A bandy-legged thing with a voice like a goat. Did

68 MiRTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

you hear the creature sing ? I wonder they don't hiss her
oft' the stage. But the men run after her, and she's kept
by an earl ; and there she is every day in her victoria,
driving in the Row among real ladies, while I must go
down to rehearsal in the bus. It's disgusting — that's what
it is. Do take care. Madeline — ^you're brushing it all the
wrong way.' .

She added as an afterthought, less in real consideratiot
for her hearer than as a parade of her own wrongs —

'Never you be an actress, chUd. Sweep a crossing
first, or serve behind a counter, or do anything dreadful.
The stage isn't fit for any decent person, and so I've told
Pa and Ma a thousand times.'

From this and from many other similar conversations,
and from several subsequent visits to the theatre, both
before and behind the scenes, Madeline began to acquire a
precocious insight into some of the mysteries of life in
London. She was clever and quick, and soon understood
as much as was comprehensible to so pure a child.
Mathilda de Berny, like many of her class, talked freely
about things which might well have been nameless, and
never seemed to reflect that the listener was so young.
Fortunately, Madeline's perfect innocence and simplicity,
combined with her real strength of character, kept her pure
from taint ; but by slow degrees the glory was beginning
to depart from the great world of which she knew so little.

Not at all too soon White saw that Madeline was in
danger of degeneration. He was a shrewd fellow, and
understood that Mathilde de Berny, though a perfectly
virtuous young woman, was not really the best companion
she could have found. It irritated him too, at last, to see
the child sinking into a mere appendage of the actress and
general drudge of the house.

' I must get her away,' he said to himself, ' before they
spoil her altogether. They neglect her and impose upon
her, and teach her things she ought not to know. I don't
want Fred's child to grow into a little slattern, with the
education, and perhaps the moral instinct, of a ballet-girl.
They make a small parasite of her, and die goes errands;
they've even got in the habit of sending her for the beer.
I'll put a stop to it at once.'

MABTYHDOM OF MADELINE. 69

The only way of putting a stop to it was to send
Madeline to a boarding-scliool ; and this he ultimately
determined to do. He had begun to feel quite a paternal
interest in her, and he was more and more struck by her
physical beauty and strong natural affection.

After seeking about for some time, and studying the
advertising columns of the daily newspapers, he discovered
a quiet school at Merton, in Surrey, under the super-
intendence of a very superior French lady. Hither it was
arranged that Madeline should go.

So, after a fond parting with Whitej Madeline repaired
to the seminary at Merton.

For a long time after her departure White was
melancholy.

He missed her bright face and her loving ways ; and
BO, in a less degree, did his companion of the studio. But
White was a busy man, part of a busy world, and he had
no time to be heartbroken about a little girl. Every month
or so he received a formal account of her doings, signed by
the superintendent, and still oftener a very effusive and
loving letter from Madeline herself. She appeared to have
become resigned very rapidly to the new conditions of her
life ; to be sanguine and full of promise ; and the official
notes of her educational progress were flattering in the
extreme.

At this point, our business with Madeline's childhood
ceases. We take the dramatist's licence, and at one leap
pass over a period of several years.

The school was in connection with a similar one in
Normandy, and the pupils had the advantage of being
transferred, at a certain stage of their progress, and at little
additional expense, to the French establishment. The
superintendent was a sensible woman, and so. White told
her the whole story.

It was presently decided that it would be for Madeline's
advantage to go to France for a year, without seeing any-
thing of White or any of her new friends. She was still
only a very rough diamond, and needed very considerable
polishing to make her approach perfection. A long period
epent in pleasant discipline, and with only the most reiined

60 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

surroundings, was absolutely essential to her moral deve-
lopment. So at least thought the lady superintendent;
and White agreed.

On receiving the information that she was to be again
transplanted, Madeline was in high grief and dudgeon, for
she had been thoroughly happy with the De Bernys, and
desired no better than to become again a kind of Cinderella
to the fair Mathilde.

During her residence at Merton Marmaduke White has
been fairly well satisfied with his ward. Beyond com-
plaints of certain erratic habits, and of her general dispo-
sition to act from passionate impulse, he had heard little to
her detriment, much to her credit.

He had seen her from time to time, and she had spent
many of her holidays at Willowtree Eoad.

From the tone of her letters, and from her words when
they met, he gathered that she was happy. She had gained
the wish of her heart ; had learnt ' French and music,' aa
well as the other elegances which constitute a good
education.

So Madeline was sent to Normandy, with a contingent
of young girls from the school at Merton.

One day, when nearly eighteen months had elapsed
since their last meeting, White received a photograph from
France. It represented a fair maiden, with great wistful
eyes, and a face of singular beauty.

At first he scarcely knew it ; then he turned it over,
and read in a bold handwriting : —

Madeline Haslemere, taken at Eouen on her 17tli birthday.

' Little Madeline ! ' he exclaimed. ' Why, she looks
quite a woman ! '

About a week after this event, Judas (now grown into
a disjointed being of seventeen or eighteen) entered with
a telegram. White opened it, and saw witli astonLshment
that it was from Madame Brock, the lady superintendent
of the school at Merton.

Then he read aa follows :—

Please come down at once. I have had terrible news from Mille-.
fleurs. Your ward, Madeline Haslemere, has run away. I fear it i«
aq ^lopemee^

— F_

MARTYRDOM UF MADMLINM. 61

CHAPTER XI.

THE HAWK AND THE DOVE.

ina_fll_our story changes for a time f roni smoky
^TJondon to a lonely road close to the sea-coast of Normandy.
It is the sunset of a rainy day, a fierce red light beats
down on the yellow colza fields, sprinkled with great bells
of crimson poppy ; on the deep, wind-swept patches of
yellow wheat ; oh the little villages embowered in foliage,
each with its old-fashioned auberge and its glittering spire.

An open post-chaise, drawn by a pair of heavy horses,
is flying seaward, towards the marine town of Fecamp.
Side by side within it sit two figures, a very young lady,
wrapped in a fur-lined silk cloak, and a tall, haggard-
looking man of thirty, with very long hair and a jet-black
moustache.

Every now and again the man leans forward and urges
on the driver, then, after a quick glance on the road, which
■winds far away behind them, he sinks back upon his seat.

They halt and change horses in a quaint little village,
where old women and maidens ply their antique spinning-
wheels at the cottage doors, and blue-bloused loungers puff
their sous cigars on wooden forms before the auberge."
They do not alight, but the gentleman brings the lady a
tiny glass of the liqueur called ' B&^dictin,' and some
wine biscuits. She sips the liqueur and breaks a biscuit,
while the loungers in blue blouses look on in admiration.

The young" lady is very pale, and looks so young that
the loungeis whisper wonderingly at each other. Now and
then her lip quivers, and her eyes fill with tears. The
gentleman with her watches her anxiously, trying to anti-
cipate every look and wish, but she scarcely looks at him —
her thoughts are far away.

' How far to Encamp ? ' the gentleman asks of the ostler,
as he slips the pour-boire into his hand ; and when he finds
that It is still many kilometres away, and that it is impos-
sible to reach it in less than three or four hours, he mutters
an imprecation.

There is a quick, cat- like look in his eyes, as he con-

62 MARTTBDOM OF MADELINM.

verses with the world at large ; but when he turns to his
companion the look is exchanged for one of touching
humility and sweetness.

They are ready to start again, the driver is in his place,
when the young lady springs up and cries in French,
* ArreUz 1 ' The gentleman, who is again seated by her
Bide, looks at her in astonishment.

' Madeline 1 mon ange ! '

She answers him in English.

' It is not too late — let us turn and go back, I am
sorry now I came away. Monsieur Belleide, I insist on
turning back.'

' Mais non ! '

' Madame CoUemaohe will forgive me — ^I will go upon
my knees and ask her — Madame is a good woman. Oh,
why did you ask me to do anything so foolish ? Look
how these people are staring ! Turn back at once ! '

But, at a sign from the gentleman, the driver has
started oiF, and they are soon leaving the village at full
gallop. To comfort her. Monsieur slips his hand round her
waist. He is not prepared for the result, which came in
the shape of a sharp slap in the face from the little gloved
hand.

' How dare you ? I will not be pulled about, and I
will go back to Madame. If you are a gentleman you will
take me back at once.'

Monsieur rubs his cheek and tries to smile, but there
is an angry light in his eyes nevertheless.

' You are cruel, and I — ah, how I love you 1 Have
you not promised to be my little wife ? Mine own
Madeline 1 '

He is about to embrace her again, but the look in her
face deters him.

' I was rngry with Madame because I thought her
cruel and unjust. She made me mad, and so I listened to
you. Drive me back. Monsieur, and I will like you very
much. I will take all the blame upon myself — only drive
me back.'

' Do not speak so,' is the reply. ' We love each other
—we will be happy — ah, so happy — ^with one another,
Madeline ! my bride I '

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 63

' I Lave changed my mind. I will not marry you,
Monsieur Belleisle I '

' Ah del, you do not mean what you say 1 '

' I do mean it. Why should I marry you 7 I do not
like you. I shall hate you soon.'

' It is too late to say that.'

' But it is true.'

' Ah, I will not beliefe it ! You are triste — the journey
make you triste and fatiguee — to-morrow you will smile
again upon your own Auguste.'

' Pray don't talk nonsense,' answered the young lady.
' I liked you very well when you gave me my lessons, and
last night in my anger, in my wickedness, I thought I
would come with you, because I wished to be revenged on
Madame and Mademoiselle Blanche. But now I have re-
pented. Monsieur. I was a little fool, and I will beg their
pardon. They have been very kind to me. I was ungrate,
ful. I will return.'

All this in an impetuous stream," half soliloquy, half
entreaty. In her passion and excitement the girl looks
very lovely, and the Frenchman gazes at her in growing
admiration. Then a thought seems to strike him, and he
looks at her slyly and smiles.

' Why are you laughing, Monsieur ? ' she cries.

* I was thinking, mignonne, how ridiculous you would
look if you returned. Ah, Dieu, how they would laugh 1 '

This is a move in the right direction. The young
lady cannot bear ridicule, and she frowns at the very
thought of it. For some minutes she seems plunged in
bitter reflection ; then she speaks again.

' No, I am not afraid,' she cries ; ' I do not fear any but
Madame, and when I have apologised she will take my
part. Oh, why did I come with you ? why did I think of
running away ? ' ^^

' Because you love me, mon ange ! '

' Love you, Monsieur Belleisle ? I like you better
than Herr Bunsen, tecause he is always cross and stupid
and* you are good-tempered. And I thought you hand-
some. Well, I did not know my mind. I will not marry
you — the thought is ridiculous. You are thirty years old,
and I do not like Frenchmen.'

64 MABTYRJOOM OF MADELIKK.

Despite her protestations, the post-chaise still continues
its wild career. It is dark at last, and the darkness is
deepened by long avenues of spectral fir-trees which line
the road on either side. A diligence passes swiftly by,
with murmur of voices and jingling of bells.

As night comes on the girl grows frightened, shrinks
away from her companion, and sobs bitterly. He tries to
comfort her with embraces and loving words, but she
avoids his touch, and rejects all his consolations.

If there were enough light to show his face, it would
reveal an aspect almost Mephistophelean in its cat-like
expression. His long fingers close and unclose nervously ;
he would like to use force, but he lacks the courage.

At last he wins her to comparative quiescence by
proving to her that return is impossible before the morrow,
and by promising that when the morrow comes he will, if
she still wishes it, see her safely back to school. With
this poor comfort she is obliged to be content ; for the
house she left at daybreak lies thirty miles behind, and it
would be useless to turn thither now.

Presently the lights of a town gleam before them, and,
after rattling through some dark suburbs, they draw up.
before the threshold of an inn— the Lion d'Or. It is a
large dreary place, with little or no custom. A ghostly
waiter shows them to a great salle a manger, which ia
totally deserted.

'While dinner is preparing, perhaps Madame would
like to make her toilette ? '

He lays emphasis on the ' Madame ' ; and then
demands, respectfully, how many chambers will be re-
quired.

Madeline does not hear, but her companion explains
that two chambers will be wanted — one for the young
lady, one for himself. The waiter bows and withdraws.
An elderly chambermaid soon appears, and shows Madeline
up to a great bedroom, grim and lonely as an empty barn,
with one little chilly bed in the corner. There are no
curtains to the window, and the moonlight is creeping in
with a ghastly gleam.

Left alone, Madeline resigns herself to remorse and
despair, and sobs as if her heart would break. An hour

MARfYRDOM OP MAhELlNM. fiS

passes thus. Then the chambermaid appears with the
intimation that Monsieur is waiting dinner, and is impa-
tient. After a moment's hesitation Madeline descends.

They are alone in the salle a manger, and the first
course is served, when there enters a muscular young man
in a shooting coat, a shirt very loose about the collar, and
a loose necktie. ' Englishman ' is written in every linea-
ment of his brown, sun-tanned countenance. In the man-
Tier of many of his nation, he scowls at his fellow-guests,
and then, without a word, falls upon the soup.

Dish after dish goes from Madeline untasted. She
breaks a little bread, that is all, and drinks a little Bcir-
deaux and water. Her face is white as death, and all the
tremendousness of the situation is full upon her.

Monsieur Belleisle, for his part, feeds 'ravenously, and
drinks more than one bottle of light wine. He is agita-
ted, but preserves his composure. In his heart he curses
the unwelcome third party present ; he burns for a tete-a-
tete.

Third party proceeds leisurely with, his dinner, only
addressing the waiter in monosyllables. He is a man of
thirty, of splendid physique and perfect health. He seems
to see and hear nothing, but all the time his eyes and ears
are wide open. He starts when the young lady — whom
he has been watching quietly — speaks in the English
tongue.

' The chambermaid says there is a train from this place
to Rouen. " It leaves at daybreak. Monsieur Belleisle.'

'We will talk of that to-morrow,' murmurs the
Frenchman, with his mouth full.

' That will be too late. I will leave by the first train,
and get a cab from Eouen to Millefleurs. I will explain
all — they may punish me as they please — I do not care.'

' Diable, and what will then become of me ? '

' I don't know — I suppose you will lose your situation,
but y^ will soon get another.'

Monsieur sinks his voice and whispers —

' Another w'ije, mignonne ? Ah non ! If you abandon
me I shall blow out my brains ; '.then, still in a low voice,
inaudible to the other person in the room, he continues,
' But you are mad, my Madeline, to think of going back.

r

66 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

H^las, it is too late ; you must marry me now, or do you
know what they will say ? They will s^y that your cha-
racter is gone, that you are me'chante, and then no one will
marry you to be put to shame. Yes, it is too late. You
should have thought of this before to-morrow. You must
become Madame my wife, or you will not be able to face
the world.'

If the speaker were an individual of any insight, or
the least sensitiveness, he would get uncomfortable Under
the calm unconscious wonder of the eyes which regard
him. His threat, for his words amount to a threat, is
cSinpletely vain. The girl looks at him quietly, and for
some minutes makes no reply whatever.

Encouraged by this silence, he pours out a low stream
of endearing epithets, cursing all the time the third party
whose presence compels him to sink his voice to a
whisper.

At that juncture, however, the third party rises, and
walks quietly from the room. Monsieur BeUeisle jumps
up, closes the door, and turns to Madeline with extended
arms, repeating in a louder voice his volley of endear-
ments.

' Do not talk nonsense. Monsieur,' is the girl's reply.
' I am not an angel ; I am more like a devil, Mademoiselle
Collemache has often said. Do not come near me — I will
not be embraced. I tell you I will not marry you. Even
if I liked you well enough, and I don't, it would be too
absurd.'

' Absurd ! ' echoed the Frenchman, with indignation.

' Yes. I am a great deal too young. It was wicked
of you. Monsieur, to tempt me — to come upon me when I
was in a passion, and persuade me to elope.'

' But I love you — ah Dieu, how much ! '

' Don't speak of it, Monsieur. Let me go back to
Madame in peace, and implore her forgiveness — I will do
so — on -my knees if she wishes it. I deserve whipping —
no punishment is too bad for me — I am so wicked.'

' Madeline,' says the Frenchman, yielding at last to
the growing fury within him, ' let us finish this folly. I
will not lose you so — no, a hundred times no. I tell you
there is no escape — you will marry ma to-morrow ; you

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 67

will, you must. If you do not, if you refuse, take care.'
And his eyes roll witli a look of significance, which she
does not understand.

' Take care of what. Monsieur ? '

' Of the world — of me. Voila ! If you do not marry
me, you will never marry another mail ! You do not know
me — I am desperate. I will follow you up and down the
■vyorld — I will say such things, ah, Dieu, wh^t will I not
say ? — until at last you go upon your bended knees and heg
me to make you my wife.'

As he speaks his face is livid with fury, and he seems
positively transformed. The girl looks at him in supreme
astonishment and growing dislike ; then she gives a little
forced laugh.

•• Do not lose your temper, Monsieur. One would think
you were giving a French lesson to one of the little girls.'

' I will give you such a lesson,' he exclaims, ' as you
will remember. I am not a common man, and I will not
be so befooled — no, no ! You treat all love as nothing —
at my devotion you laugh — you are cruel, but / can be
cruel too. — ^Ah, now, I do not mean that ! I love you too
Well. You promised to marry me, and you will marry
me, n'est-ce pas, my Madeline 7 '

He starts and tries to compose his features, for that
moment the obnoxious third party re-enters the room, and,
taking a chair, proceeds, with an air of great carelessness,
to read a journal.

After an awkward suspense of some minutes, Belleisle,
in his turn, leaves the apartment, not without glancing
significantl;f at the stranger, and expressively putting hia
finger to his lipS to enjoin silence.

Scarcely has he vanished when the third party rises,
looks at Madeline, and, walking quietly over to her, says
in English —

' Pardon me, but is that gentleman your husband ? '

f 2

C8 MASTTRDOM OF MADELmS.

•j
CHAPTER XII.

CAGED.

Thus abruptly interrogated, Madeline goes red as crimson,
and trembles violently. Then by a migbty effort she
recovers herself, conquers the violent trembling of her
hands, and raises her head.

He repeats the question ; whereupon Madeline turns
her head coldly away.

The movement is abrupt enough to send her vis-a-vis
straight from the room, but, curiously enough, he lingers.
Madeline does not look at him, but she feels that he is
examining her — his eyes search her face, her figure, her
Lands. With an impulsive movement she turns slightly,
interlaces her fingers, so as to hide from his searching gaze
the third finger of her left hand ; then gives one quick
glance at his face.

' I do not know you, monsieur ! '

' No, Madame.^ He lays unusual stress upon the title.
' But the fact of your having used the English language
must pass as my excuse for having addressed you at all.
Can I be of any servi'ce to you ? '

He asks the question slowly, but without a moment's
hesitation Madeline replies —

'No, no.'

The answer, which is more like a pitiful appeal than a
cold dismissal, holds the man to his place.

' I have arranged to leave here by the night train,' he
says ; ' but if I can be of the very slightest assistance to
you, pray do not hesitate to say so. If you wish it, I will
remain at hand ! '

Again Madeline's cheeks burn with a humiliating sense
of shame. Perhaps that is the reason she carries her head
BO haughtily and infuses such a harshness into the tone of
her voice.

' There is no need for you to stay ; you cannot be of
any use to me ; but I thank you for the offer, sir. Good-
night.'

And with a bow she brings the interview to a decided

MARTYRDOM OV MADELINE. 69

close, and walks to the otter end of the room. For a
moment or two the Englishman lingers. Although he
stands at a distance,- and with his face turned another way,
Madeline can feel that he is watching her. At last, with a
cold ' Good-night, Madame,' he leaves the room.

She has turned to answer his' Good-night,' and now
her eyes are fixed upon the door. The flush upon her
cheek burns more brightly than ever, and her hands have
begun to tremble again ; she bites her quivering lip and
walks impetuously up and down the room.

' I treated him shockingly,' she says to herself, ' but
what else could I do ? Humiliate myself before him —
confess that I had run away from school, and that now,
like a naughty child, I wanted to be punished and then
forgiven ? If he had been an old man I might have done
so. If he had been the least homely and comfortable-
looking I might have done so — but he was so handsome
and so proud-looking — and so young.'

Presently she adds : —

' I wonder what M'sieur Belleisle is doing ? Perhaps
I had better ring for the waiter, and make arrangements
for leaving by the morning train.'

She crosses the room, lays her hand upon the bell, is
about to ring, when Monsieur Belleisle, who has noise-
lessly entered the room, quietly takes her hand.

At the first touch of his cold fingers Madeline's face
again flushes crimson, and she draws her hand away.

Madeline cannot see his face — his head is hung too
much forward, but his body bends in all humility before
her.

' My Madeline is cruel,' he says in a strangely insinu-
ating tone, ' but I confess to myself that she is right. I
confess I have been to blame, but I am an honourable man,
and I will make all amends.'

' By marrying me, I suppose you mean, M'sieur ? '

The Frenchman smiles.

' That is what I would wish to do, but since it is not
yaar wish, I will talk about it no more. I will do what
you desire, Mam'selle 1 '

'You know what I. wish. It is to return to Madams
Colle»aohe I '

70 MARTTBDOM OF MADELINE.

The Frenchman shrugs his shoulders and spreads out
both his hands.

' Even so,' he says ; ' but you know, Mam'selle, you
cannot leave till daybreak, for you have troubled yourself
to enquire. Well, in order to screen yourself from scandal '
— ^he lays peculiar stress on the word — ' I will introduce
you to a lady who I know will be philanthropist enough to
give you the shelter of her presence to-night, and take you
back to Madame Collemache'on the morrow.'

His manner is obsequious — far too obsequious to be
genuine — but this Madeline does not observe. She only
feels a soft sense of relief steal over her, and in her grati-
tude she impulsively takes the Frenchman's hand.

' You are too good, M'sieur,' she says, ' and I shall
never rest until I have repaid you. I will intercede with
Madame CoUemache — I will write to Mr. White, my guar-
dian — I will get you your reward ! '

The Frenchman bows still lower.

' My Madeline will not trouble herself so much on my
account,' he says. ' I have won a leetle of Madeline's
esteem — and so I have my reward. And now I have a
leetle favour to ask for in return.'

Madeline's face falls, and though he does not appear to
be looking at her he notices it in a moment.

' Do not be afraid,' he continues, reassuringly, but
keeping at a respectful distance from her. ' My request is
for your good. It is this — that you promise me to remain
quietly here for an hour or two ; say nothing to any one,
and not to make arrangements about the journey to-morrow :
all that shall be done for you. At the end of two hours,
say, I will return. I will bring with me the respectable
lady I have mentioned — and then, with my Madeline's per-
mission, I will make my adieux.'

' Make your adieux ? — ah, M'sieur, I am so sorry for
you '

' Do not talk of me 1 I shall find another appointment.
You will give the promise which I ask of you ? '

' Tes.'

He takes her hand, bends over it, and kisses it — and
leaves the girl alone.

For a time Madeline stands quite still, stupefied by the

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 71

very intensity of her relief. She rests her elbow on the
■ mantelpiece, drops her cheeks upon her hands, and fixes her
eyes upon the windows, as if to watch the slowly gathering
gloom. She feels no self-pity ; on the events which will
probably transpire on the morrow her imagination refuses
to dwell; she can think only of M'sieur Belleisle — of his
goodness, his self-sacrifice, his devotion. During the whole
time of their acquaintance Madeline has never thought so
highly of her tutor as she does at this moment — when she
is preparing, as she thinks, to plunge him into ruin.

Her meditations having reached this point are inter-
nipted. The door of the salle a manger opens, and the
Englishman re- enters the room. He is dressed for travel-
ling ; he looks around as if searching for som,ething, then
he paused before the girl.

' I am just on the point of starting,' he says abruptly ;
and Madeline, after puzzling her brain for a suitable reply,
says —

' It is a fine night for travelling — ^I wish you a pleasant
.journey, M'sieur.'

He pauses, and for a moment there is blank silence ;
then he returned to the old question —

' You are sure,' he says, ' -quite sure, that I can do
nothing for you ? '

And Madeline, feeling that since her last interview with
Monsieur Belleisle her mantle of shame has fallen from her,
gives such a decided negative that her companion goes.

How dark it is growing ! and, with the coming on of
night, how the girl's spirits sink ! She lights the gas, and
looks at her watch. Half an hour only has passed since
Monsieur Belleisle left her ; some time must yet elapse
before he returns. Meanwhile, what can she do to make
the time hang less heavily on her hands ? She resolves to
write letters, and, having got the waiter to supply her with
pens, ink, and paper, sits down to concoct an epistle to Mr.
White.

Madeline is impulsive, and the impulse of gratitude ia
just now strongly upon her. Her letter to White, after
giving a short account of her elopement, is filled with the
most pronounced eulogiums upon Monsieur Belleisle — his
goodness, his self-Eacrifice— and esds by asking White if

72 MABTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

he cannot make some reparation to tlie man. Her letter
to Madame CoUemaclie is less gushing, but more to the
point. In it she promises to return on the moiTow, im-
plores Madame's forgiveness, and tells her all. Having
■written the letters she hands them to the waiter to be
posted forthwith. Her letter to Madame CoUemache will
arrive in the morning, a few hours before the return of the
unlucky criminal herself. The thought of this comforts
the girl ; it will pave the way for the com.ing interview,
and make it less trying, she thinks. When it occurs to her
for a moment that Madame CoUemache may refuse to have
any interview at all, she reflects that the lady whom Mon-
sieur Belleisle, with an amount of delicate consideration
she had certainly never given him credit for, has volun-
teered to introduce, will be a sufficient guarantee of her
conduct, and make all right again.

Again Madeline's meditations are interrupted ; this
time by a carriage, which, after dashing rapidly along the
street, stops suddenly before the door of the inn. Madeline
runs to the window, and is just in time to see, by the
flickering light of the street lamps, a figure, quietly dressed
in black, descending from the voiture and entering the door
of the inn. The arrival seems to have caused a sensation ;
sounds of voices come from below ; steps come steadily up
the stairs ; then the door of the salle a manger opens, and
the new arrivals enter the room.

One is Monsieur Belleisle, the other a lady clad in
heavy widow's mourning, who leans rather heavily on hia
arm.

At the first glance the lady appears to be yoimg — ^her
step is elastic, her figure slight ; but when she comes right
into the room, and stands beneath the glare of the gaslight,
one can see at a glance that her age must be nearly sixty.

Her hair, which is brushed very smooth beneath her
widow's bonnet, is white as snow, and her whole face bears
the unmistakable stamp of care. Madeline is glad ; the
widow's mourning, the white hair and wrinkled face, seem
to shed all over her the halo of respectability. With a
childish faith in the sex of the new-comer, she steps forward
impulsively, holding out her hand.

Monsieur introduces the ladj? as his ' very good friend,

MASTTMDOM OF MADELINE. 73

Madame de Fontenay ; ' then after a word or two, he takes
a respectful farewell of Madeline and goes. He will not
even remain in the same hotel which holds the girl that
night, so careful is he of her good name — but five minutes
after he has left the salle a manger, Madeline, who is look-
ing from the window, sees him. enter the post-chaise lately
occupied by Madame de Fontenay, and drive rapidly from
the door.

Madeline, stricken with remorse, has asked his plans,
but he has told her nothing. When she hinted that she
might wish to communicate with him, he replied that any
communication for him can be sent through Madame de
Fontenay.

And now, while the carriage which contains Monsieur
Belleisle is rolling away through the thickening darkness,
Madeline turns to discuss her tutor with her new friend.
■ She has waxed eloquent in her praise of him, and is just
in the middle of a fresh culogium, when the waiter brings
in the supper, and Madame de Fontenay retires to prepare
for the meal. When she returns, divested of her bonnet
and her cloak, and takes her seat at the head of the table,
she says —

' When I ordered supper, ma chere Mam'selle Hazle-
mere, I took the liberty of ordering it for two^ for look
you, ever since the days of my childhood I could never
bear to eat alone. You will join me ? Non ? Well, you
will at least break a biscuit and drink with me a glass of
wine.'

Whereupon Madeline, who has turned from the supper,
takes her seat at the table to crumble her biscuit and sip
the wine which Madame de Fontenay has poured ; but at
this juncture Madeline grows thoughtful, and Madame de
Fontenay, who has hitherto been rather reticent, grows
very talkative indeed, sips her wine with a relish, disposes
of the various courses, pausing now and again to glance
■with piercing eyes at the girl.

, Supper being over, Madame rises and slips her hand
through Madeline's arm.

' Come to the window. Mademoiselle,' she says, ' and
take a breath of air while the waiter prepares the coffee,
But first — see, you have not finished your wine,'

74 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

She lifts the glass, which still holds a little wine, and
ofEers it to Madeline, but the girl, with a deprecating move-
ment, turns away.

' I cannot take any more of that wine, Madame,' she
says ; ' it is very strong ; I think it has made me feel quite
stupid.'

Madame de Fontenay gives a little laugh, and holding
her hand still tighter on her companion's arm, and leading
her to a seat in the window, places herself by her side.

'Ah, my child,' she says, 'it is not the effect of the
wine ; it is the result of the trouble, the excitement, the
fatigue, through which you have passed this day. You
will get to bed, and rise in the morning refreshed for your
journey back.'

Madeline assents. She sits in the window allowing the
■widow to stroke her feverishly burning hand ; but as that
strange drowsiness oppresses her more and more, she goes
to bed and falls into a heavy slumber.

"When she awakens it is broad day ; a figure dressed
in black is bending above her, holding a tray. Madeline
rubs her eyes — then, looking through a mist which seems
to obscure her sight, she recognises the pale, bloodless
features of Madame de Fontenay; she looks round the
room, everything is misted ; she rises in bed, and finds she
can scarcely sit up. Her temples throb, her head burns —
she seems to have been seized with fever.

Then in one flash the reality of her situation comes
upon her, and she gazes at the window with wild frightened
eyes.

' The morning train to Kouen is gone ? ' she asks.

Madame de Fontenay bends above her with a kind,
reassuring smile. She has placed the tray on a table which
she has drawn up beside the bed ; and now she presses
her cold white hands to Madeline's throbbing brow. As
she does so a strange light comes into her eyes, a curious
smile contracts her mouth ; but her voice is quite melodioua
when she speaks again.

' The morning train is gone — yes, that is so,' she says.
' I came and looked at you half an hour before the train
started, and I did not wake you, since I saw you were not
fit to travel. You are sickening for aa illness, and I must

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 75

remove you carefully. I have ordered a carriage to be at
the door in half an hour. You will take this breakfast
which I have brought to you, and dress yourself — apres,
we will start for Eouen.'

Madeline assents ; half an hour later she is seated in a
close carriage, resting her throbbing head on Madame de
Fontenay's shoulder.

' How your brow burns, uiy dear child,' says Madame

de Fontenay, drawing off one of her gloves, and laying her

_ cool fingers on the throbbing temples of the girl ; then she

produces a small gold-mounted vinaigrette and.offers it to

the girl.

' Smell this occasionally, and it will relieve the feverish
condition — above all, remain tranquil, and close youi;
eyes.'

The latter part of this advice is quite unnecessary ;
although Madeline's head is burning more feverishly than
ever, although her temples continue to throb, her lips feel
parched and dry — she feels gradually stealing over her a
strange sense of languor, which compels her to shut her
eyes and lean more heavily upon her companion.

The carriage, which is drawn by two horses, proceeds
quickly on its way. Madame de Fontenay thrusts her
head and shoulders out of the carriage window to give
some directions to the coachman. What she says Madeline
does not know. She can only hear a confused murmur of
voices, which seem to come to her through the vapours of
a dream. She hears the murmurs, she feels the lady reseat
herself, then she knows that the carriage is going even
faster than before ; and she again relapses into a dim state
of stupor.

When next she opens her eyes the carriage has stopped,
and Madame de Fontenay, with some assistance, is helping
her to alight. When she stands erect in the open air her
head begins to swim ; she reels, and is caught in somebody's
arms. She gazes vacantly about her, and as she does so
she grows still more confused. She is at a railway station,
and although her senses are very much dulled §he possesses
reason enough to know she has never been there before.
She is about to speak, when Madame de Fontenay, putting
an arm affectionately around her, half leads, half pushes

76 MARTYRDOM 01' MADELINE.

her forward ; then sh-e is hurriedly thrust into a first-clasa
carriage, the doors are banged to, and the train moves off.
As it does so, she makes a strong effort to shake off the
dreamy stupor which seems to be paralysing her whole
body — she looks around the carriage. Besides herself, the
only other occupant of the compartment is Madame de
Fontenay, who, bending over a small wicker basket, is
busily engaged in producing eatables and a little wine.
There is a light burning in the carriage roof, and when
Madeline looks out of the carriage window she is amazed
to find that day is fast fading into night.

What a strange country they are passing through ! She
racks her brain, trying to remember if she has ever seen
it before ; but the more she tries to collect her thoughts,
the more confused and clouded they become.

A light touch from her companion rouses her from her
reverie ; she looks round ; Madame de Fontenay is offer-
ing her a sandwich — she takes it ; she is growing sick and
faint for want of fpod.

' Where are we ? ' asks Madeline ; but it is evident that
Madame de Fontenay does not hear. She sits composedly
in one corner, eats some sandwiches, and sips some wine.
Presently she rises, turns her back upon her companion for
a moment, then approaching her, offers her a little wine.
Madeline turns aside her head, and holds up her hands as
if to push the glass away. She has grown to detest the
wine, for whenever she sips it she seems to feel that strange
drowsiness increase ; but Madame de Fontenay, who is not
quite so yielding as she has been heretofore, takes the
girl's nerveless hands in her own, and, holding the glass to
her bloodless lips, forces her to drink.

The train speeds on, the hours go by wearily and slowly,
and with the passing of every hour the darkness deepens.
Madeline, feeling utterly prostrated and paralysed, sits
helpless in her corner of the carriage, and Madame de
Fontenay sleeps. Her sleep is evidently of the lightest,
for whenever the train stops she starts to her feet, rushes
to the door and keeps her stand there, while sounds of ieet
rise and die upon the platform, and the train moves on
Again. Madeline tries to rise, but her strength fails her ;
.she tries to speak — the words die upon her lips in a faint

MARTyRDOU OF MADELINE, 11

inarticulate sound — something catches her breath and
parches her tongue. Thus the night passes.

Dawn breaks, and almost with the first streak of day-
break the train comes to a stand again, and Madeline ia
assisted out. Again she tries to speak, but her low faint
murmurs are lost amidst the bustle, the confusion, the
loud cries of the railway officials. She is hurried through
the crowd into a carriage, and before she can collect her
wandering senses to protest she is again being whirled
rapidly onward. A drive of some minutes ; then the
carriage passes through a narrow street and stops before a
door. Madeline is taken from the carriage, conducted up
a flight of stone steps into a finely furnished room.

A man is standing before her. At the sight of his face
her dulled senses seem suddenly to brighten. She utters
two words, his name —

' Monsieur Belleisle 1 '

The Frenchman bows, smiles, and extends both hia
hands toward her.

' Madeline,' he says, ' welcome, mon ange ! '

With a cry Madeline shrinks back, her soul sickens,
her dim wandering eyes begin to dilate with fear. She
presses both her hands to her throbbing temples, and
stares at the Frenchman again.

' Why are you < here, M'eieur ? ' she says hurriedly ;
* what has been done to me — where am I ? '

The Frenchman bows again.

' They have brought you to me, tnon ange,^ he says.
' You are in the house of my very good friend, Madame de
Fontenay.'

There is something in his face which causes Madeline
to shrink back with horror ; then, with a low cry, she
covers her face with her hands and falls in a swoon upon
the floor.

CHAPTER Xm.

MADELINE AWAKES FROM HER DREAM.

That very day, either with or without her consent. Made*
line Hazlemere was made Madeline Belleisle ; at I^st, a

78 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

certain form of marriage was gone through, in the presence
of Madame de Fontenay and several strangers, and before a
person in the habit of a priest. Madeline had now no power
to resist, for the influence of some strange opiate was upon
her— dulling all her senses, and making the first few days
of her married life pass in a sort of dream.

They travelled for a couple of days ; then paused, and
lived for a week or so in some quaint little village by the
sea. Where it was Madeline did not know ; she had not
even energy enough to inquire ; unresisting, uncomplain-
ing, she was led about like a lamb going to the slaughter.
In the morning she walked along the sands by the French-
man's side, and dreamily watched the fiishionable Parisian
bathers disporting , themselves in the waves ; then she re-
turned home to spend the rest of the day with Madame
de Fontenay (who, for some mysterious reason, had never
once left the married pair), while Monsieur Belleisle be-
took himself to the cafi to spend his evenings in his own
favourite way.

It could not be expected that the days would continue
to glide thus smoothly along ; nevertheless the peace was
broken rather sooner than one would have anticipated.
One morning, as Madeline rose from the breakfast table
and put on her hat for a stroll along the sands, her hus-
band laid his hand upon her arnx and drew her into her
Beat again.

' Madeline, mon arrdej he said in his blandest tone, ' I
wish to arrange with you concerning our domestic life. I
should have wished the first advance to come from you ;
but since that cannot be, since you take so little interest
in our menage as to be indifierent to it, it is time for me
to speak.'

The girl sat quietly where she had been placed, and
fixed her eyes sadly upon the Frenchman. He h^d used
her like a villain, but for the moment the part which
he had played was partially or entirely forgotten. She
thought only of the man who had first awakened romance
within her. Had Monsieur Belleisle spoken kindly, had
he infused into his tone and words one-half the tenderness
whidh at one time he had at his command, she might have
thrown horsielf into his arma, with tears of tenderness and

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 79

Borrow ; but his manner chilled her, and her rising tears
■were checked by the presence of Madame de Fontenay,
•who sat in the room quietly watching and waiting.

Madeline remained silent; so the Frenchman spoke
again —

' How do you suppose,' said he, ' that we are to live,
my dear?'

Still Madeline was dumb — what could he mean by
asking her such a question 7

' You will write,' continued Monsieur Belleisle — ' write
at once, for enough time has been wasted, to your English
guardian — M'sieur White, I think you have called him — •
and ask him to send you two hundred pounds.'

Still Madeline stared in silence. She was not thinking
of the Frenchman now. All her present surroundings
faded away, and she saw only the pleasant little studio in
St. John's Wood, with the dearly beloved figure of White
standing amidst his brushes, canvas, and paints. But he
was not looking genially about him, as she had so often
seen him do ; his eyes were fixed with a look of sad
reproach ujpon the painted face of a gipsy-like girl of ten,
and his voice cried out with a ring of terrible sorrow —

' Madeline — my little Madeline 1 '

The girl saw and heard, and in her anguish she
dropped her face in her hands and burst into a passionate
flood of tears.

They were the first tears she had shed since her
marriage. The storm had been long in bursting; but
now its violence was intense. For a time she remained
utterly prostrated by her sorrow; when she raised her
head she saw that the Frenchman was calmly looking on.

' Is it over ? ' he asked.

Madeline did net answer him; she stifled her sobs,
dried her eyes, and walked over to the window. The
Frenchman followed her with his eyes.

' You are longing for your morning walk, my wife,' he
said,; ' eh Men, write the letter and you shall go.'

' I cannot write the letter, M'sieur Belleisle.'

' Then give me the address of M'sieur White, and I
will do so for you, mon amie.'

'If your only object in writing is to get money,'

so MAUTTlinOM OF MADELINE.

remarked Madeline quietly, ' you may save yourself the
trouble, M'sieUr — I do not think Mr. White has two
hundred pounds in the whole world.'

' What do you mean ? ' '

' Just what I say, M'sieur.'

' That M'sieur White is a poor man ? '

' Very, very poor '

' And yet he sent you to the pension of Madame
CoUemache, and you spread the report in Millefleurs that
your English guardian was a great artist and a rich man.'

' I am sure I did not spread any such report. Mr.
White pinched himself to pay for my schooling, and I have
repaid him by — by '

She paused, for Belleisle suddenly interposed with an
exclamation so brutal, so coarse and savage, that she stared
at him in a new terror.

The outburst over, he sank into a chair, looking
positively livid. What could Madeline say or do ? She
did not know. She stood staring stupidly at the French-
man until he spoke again. He rose and came towards her,
hissing his words through his teeth.

' If M'sieur White has no money, if you have no
money, why then did you run away from your school and
marry me 1 '

' I ran away from school because I was a foolish, im-
grateful, headstrong girl, M'sieur, and I married you
because you used cowardly, cruel means and forced me to
do so ! '

The Frenchman laughed, stretching his long thin
mouth from ear to ear.

' I force you to marry me, and make you a martyr, I
suppose ? — that is very good. But hear the truth from
me, Madame — and unless you are careful, all the world
shall know it too. I marry you simply out of pity. I am
seduced by you to carry you off from school, and then,
out of pity for you, I marry you and save you ; yes, I
sacrifice myself by taking a wife whose fame is gone — and
then, when I look for a little help from joxi, you say " I
give you none " '

He ended with an expletive which made the girl's
cheek burn with shame, and brought her trembling to her

MARTTBDOM OF MABELINE. 81

feet, wLh wrathful flame in her great blue eyes. For a
moment he shrank before her.

' Do not try grand airs with me, Madame — you had

better think how you are to live ! ' and, with another

oath, he hurriedly left the room.

AH this while Madame Fontenay bad kept her seat ;
but though her body had been inactive, her tongue silent,
her eyes had done enough for all.

During the whole of the preceding interview they had
been fixed with calm, cold scrutiny on Madeline's face.
She had noted every flush on her cheek, every curve of
the lip, every look that was shot from the tearful eyes ;
finally, her cold grey orbs were fixed more steadily than
ever upon the girl as she stood watching the door which
had just been closed upon the enraged husband.

' Mon Dieu ! ' mentally exclaimed Madame de Fon-
tenay, ' the girl is superb, is magnificent — a face like that
should be fortune enough for any man ! '

She rose from her seat and went over to Madeline.

' My poor child,' she said, ' this is your first quarrel,
let us hope it will be your last. Emile Belleisle is a fool
and a brute this morning — but he is not always so. Do
not grieve, ma chere, or your good looks will leave you.
I will reprove him for his insolence, and he — well, he
shall make amends 1 ' and she followed her accomplice,
leaving Madeline alone.

For a time the girl stood, moveless, speechless, com-
prehending only in a dull, stupefied manner the reality of
all that had passed. Her eyes were tearless, her lips
firmly set together, but her hands were trembling and cold
as death. She seemed to see the Frenc'aman's face before
her, she seemed to hear his words ; then again there came
to her the pitiful refrain from the man whose heart she
feared to have broken —

' Madeline — my little Madeline ! '

Again she sank down, crying — ah, what a relief she
found in those tears ! When they subsided her brain
began to work, and she wondered what she must do.

Up to that moment she had sometimes pitied Monsieur
Belleisle, if she could not love him. But that was all
over ; he had slain her pity, and he had not awakened

82 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

affection. She knew now why the man wooed her, carried
her off from school, and by force married her — he fancied
her a rich heiress, a girl who would enable him to
renounce his slavery of teaching and live in luxury all hi8
days. Had this indeed been the case, Belleisle would have
made a tolerably quiet husband ; the sudden darkening of
his daydreams had turned him into a devil.

Again Madeline thought 'What shall I do?' but the
answer would not shape itself. The idea of writing to
White repelled her, for she remembered the letter which
she had sent to him little mote than three weeks before
^a letter overflowing with eulogiums upon Monsieur
Belleisle. She could not write yet— rather let White
think her dead than alive to cause him further sorrow.
She had made her own bed ; come what may, she would
lie on it alone.

So she sat, half crying, lis'tening in a vague dreamy
way to the traffic in the village street, when the room door
suddenly opened, and Monsieur Belleisle returned. At his
entrance she raised her head ; at the sight of her tormentor
she dropped it again, and coldly turned away. He did
not approach her — he walked about the room for some
minutes; then he sat, and, there was silence. How still
the room was ! Madeline could hear the beating of her
heart ; her breath came fast and thick : her hands were
growing clammily cold ; anger, self-pity, resentment, were
struggling in her breast, but her quivering lips would not
open.

She looked round the room. There sat the Frenchman
in his easy-chair, with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the
empty hearth. She rose to leave the room ; in a moment
the man sprang forward and stood in humiliation before
her.

' Madeline, my wife — will you forgive me ? '

The girl looked at him in blank amazement. She
could not answer him, and he continued —

' I am a passionate man — I have an uncontrollable
temper, but I am not slow to say I am wrong — forgive me,
my Madeline, I have wronged you.'

As he spoke he stretched forth both his hands, but she
instinctively shrank away. It was well that she could not

MARTTRBOM OF MABELINE. 83

see the expression of Ms face as she did so. He bowed
before her, and spoke again.

' Eh hi&n,' he said softly — so softly, so meltingly, she
could hardly bring herself to believe it to be the same
man who had insulted her a little before. ^ Eh Men, I
deserve that you should shrink from me, but now I will
make amends for my brutal conduct, and you shall try to
forget, cherie'

If Madeline had been herself she might have re-
membered that it was in this very guise of humility that
Monsieur Belleisle came to her when he had determined
upon doing her the greatest wrong which she had ever re-
ceived in her life ; but she was a mere child, and did not
remember ; the agonising hours spent in the hotel at
Fecamp were for the moment forgotten, and the French-
man spoke on.

Ah, yes, his offence had been great ; but he determined
to make full reparation. He admitted that he was sorry
to find that he had wed a penniless wife, but his sorrow
was- gone, his anger overcome ; he declared now that his
wife possessed attributes which money could not buy, and
the want of money, save that it might deprive her of certain
luxuries, troubled him not at all. This, then, was his
purposed reparation, that Madeline should go to her room
and spend the day in resting ; that, subsequently, she
should array herself in evening costume and accompany
her EmUe to a pleasant dinner, and go to a place of enter-
tainment afterwards.

Poor Madeline looked at the man in stupefied amaze-
ment. Whether or not he was straightforward and honest
she could not tell, nor did she pause to inquire ; she gave
a trembling consent to all his wishes, and passed alone up
to her room.

How quiet it was there ! What a blessed relief from
the presence of her tormentor. She poured some eau de
Cologne on her forehead, threw herself on the cool white
bed, and closed her aching eyes. How long she , lay thus
she did not know ; the next thing she was conscious of
was a knock at the door — then a maid entered, bearing
some biscuits and a glass of wine. She informed Madeline
that Monsieur had sent this refreshment to Madame, as he

02

Si A'ARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

feared that the long day's fast would make her faint for the
evening; she bore also, from Monsieur, a small three-
cornered note, which Madeline laid aside until the girl had
quitted the room, when she proceeded to acquaint herself
with the contents.

My ova little wife — myieaiitiful Madeline [thus wrote Monsieur
Belleisle, in his own language], if you wish to please me — although
I am not worthy your forbearance — still, sweet one, if you can for-
give me, and will try to please me, you will mate yourself look to-
Dight divinely fair. There are many fair faces in this place — many
will meet us to-night, but I wish my wife to be without a rival in
the loveliness which is hers ! Your own

Emile.

Madeline read the letter twice, crumpled it in her hand,
and threw it aside. She drank the wine which had been
sent to her, and ate a biscuit ; then, feeling somewhat re-
freshed and a good deal clearer in the head, she reviewed
in her mind the exact state of affairs.

Her first impulse that morning had been to leave her
husband, to travel back to England and throw herself on
the compassion of Mr. White. She knew that he would
forgive her, kiss her, cry over her, and, looking a little
saddened perhaps, fake her to his hearth, as he had once
done before. But now her common sense told her that a
husband could not be disposed of so readily. It was quite
evident to her that Monsieur Belleisle, despite his violent
words in the morning, did not wish to resign the bride he
had taken so much trouble to win. If she were to return
to her home, he might seek her out, and force her to return
to him — or if she hid herself, he would be quite capable in
Lis anger of making public such a story as would shame
her for ever. The affair would be raked up for public
comment, and the woman would be martyred, the man
made a hero — as usual. Mrs. Grundy would hold up her
hands in horror at the idea of a girl, still in her teens,
forcing her music master to run away with her.

Yes, the case would always stand so, for Madeline could
not even urge in palliation of her act of desertion the fact
of cruelty. Belleisle had spoken harshly, to be sure, but
then how many husbands often did the same, and how
few of them had the '^ood taste to make so humiliating an

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINM. 8S

Apology ? Perhaps after all he loved her in his own
peculiar fashion, and if he was willing to atone, why,
the best thing she could do was to meet him half way, and,
if she could not be happy, to try at least and be content.

She looked at her watch ; five o'clock. How quickly,
and yet how wearily, the day had gone by ! How white,
how haggard, and old she looked ! And he wanted her
to eclipse the Parisian ladies who had come down to revive
their beauty by the sea. She did not know that she had
already done so, that during her daily walks on the sea-
shore she had several times been pointed out as ' the
beautiful Mademoiselle Anglaise,' whose sad eyes had un-
consciously touched many hearts, and whose story many
were guessing at, but no one knew.

At last she shook off her apathy, and tried'to forget her
Borrow. If she must appear in pulDlic she would not dis-
grace herself or her nation. She gave no thought to
Monsieur BeUeisle, but she rubbed her pale cheeks until
the roses came, and then threw open the doors of her ward-
robe to select a dress for that evening's wear.

' Select a dress ! ' How farcial it seemed ! BeUeisle had
spoken truly when he said that he had wed a beggar. The
only dress which was at all fit for her to wear was one
■which had been presented to her by himself some two days
after their marriage — a dress of black silk, verjf youthful
in cut, displaying very freely her throat, neck, shoulders,
and arms, and fastening in at the waist with an amber
girdle — a dress Greek in design, French in the arrange-
ment of colours, and looking most bewitching when draped
about the figure of the sad- eyed English girl ; whose arms
were so round and white, whose shoulders so graceful and
BO fair, and whose whole appearance was pretty enough to
subdue the most inveterate woman-hater in the world.

Arrayed in her simple dress the child stood before the
mirror well pleased with herself.

'I should like dear, kind, good Mr. White to see me
now,' she said to herself. ' I should like just now to run
into the dear old studio in St. John's Wood, without letting.
Timothy announce me, as he did once before, and throw
my arms round my dear old guardian's neck.'

A knock came to the door.

86 MAMTyHDOM OF MADELINE.

' Madeline, mon amie, forgive me for interrupting you,*
said Madame de Fontenay, advancing slowly into the room ;
' I knocked twice and you did not answer me, so I thought
you must be sleeping.'

Madeline bit her lip, pretended to arrange some stray
locks of her hair, but said nothing.

' Ma foi,' continued the widow, ' but you look charm-
ing ; add this diamond and your toilette will be complete.'

As Madeline turned to face the widow, she started on
seeing that she too wore evening dress,

Madame de Fontenay looked more motherly, more
thoroughly saddened with respectability, than ever she had
been before. She wore a dress of heavy widow's mourn-
ing — composed of silk, crape, and jet; a widow's cap,
composed of three pretty folds, crowned her wavy masses
of glittering grey hair.

' Do you go with us to-night, Madame ? '

' Emile has done me the honour to ask me, and I have
consented. I trust my presence will not be unpleasant to
you, my child.'

For a moment Madeline did not reply. She disliked
Madame de Fontenay, and yet she feared her. She
knew that the widow had been instrumental in marrying
her to Monsieur Belleisle, and, not content with that, had
kept with them, watching as the hawk watches the dove
the poor victim whom she had caught, and frequently pre-
venting by her very presence, anything like a proper
understanding between man and wife. And Madeline had
a repulsion for the woman. She felt that she was the
Frenchman's evil genius, ready" to pander to his passions,
and 'Counteract any inclination he might have towards
nobility and goodness. Still the pale widow's star was
in the ascendant just then, and Madeline was powerless.
She felt it would be unwise to make an open enemy of
Madame ; at any rate until she had won over her accom-
plice. So she parried the question politely, and fixed her
eyes on the case which Madame held in her hand.

' Diamonds, did you say, for me, Madame ? I thought
Monsieur Belleisle was poor ? '

' So he was a week ago, but now he gives you these —
put them on, my child — and hurry down, for Emile is

MARTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 87

waiting ; ' and without saying more she quitted the
room.

Madeline opened the case which the widow had left
behind her, and looked in surprise at the contents. Three
diamond stones for the hair, a ruby band for the neck, and
a fragile diamond bracelet for the arm.

She put them on, and, throwing a thin lace scarf over
her shoulders, ran down stairs.

She found Monsieur Belleisle waiting for her, clad also
in becoming evening dress, and looking handsomer than
she had ever seen him look before. He glanced at her
approvingly from head to foot, kissed her, and led her to a
carriage, which was waiting at the door, and which already
held Madame de Fontenay. As soon as they were seated
the horses moved off ; whither, Madeline did not know.
A drive of a few minutes brought them to the door of a
brilliantly lighted building. The horses were pulled up ;
Monsieur Belleisle alighted, handed out Madame de Fon-
tenay, then tenderly lifted Madeline in his arms and put
her on the ground. He placed her hand upon his arm
and led her forward — through a great lobby, and finally
into a room where some two hundred people were seated
at dinner.

The entrance of the three last guests attracted a good
deal of attention. Madeline, still holding her husband's
arm, and led by him down one side of the long room and
up the other, began to blush and cast down her eyes in
confusion, for she felt herself rapidly becoming the centre
of observation.

At length places were found, and they commenced
dinner. Again Madeline was confused and abashed, not
by the public gaze this time, but by the assiduous atten-
tions of her husband and Madame de Fontenay. They
treated her if she were some princess, who condescended
when she.smiled upon them and did them honour when
she spoke. The girl was more troubled than ever, but she
no longer tried to solve the strange problem. She received
the homage of her husband with becoming gentleness, and
ate her dinner as contentedly as she could under the cir-
cumstances.

Dinner over, Monsieur Belleisle rose, oflfered Madeline

85 MARTYRDOM OF MAHELINH.

his arm, and, with much bustle and turmoil, conducted
her from the room— the pallid widow following. Again
she felt herself the centre of attraction, and, feeling less
abashed, she held up her head with becoming grace and
confidence, and swept her bright eyes along the ranks ol
flushed, admiring faces.

- ' My dear Madeline,' said Monsieur Belleisle to her that
night, ' it is not always a rich wife who brings happiness
to a man. I married a treasure when I married you, cherie.'
To the widow he said, when the two were closeted
alone —

' What say you to our plan now, Madame ? '
' What I said before. The girl has beauty enough to
send Paris mad, if she remains in the hands of a careful
master.'

CHAPTER XIV.

DARKER DATS.

That one exciting evening over, Madeline's life in the
place became even more monotonous than it had been be-
fore. Every morning she was taken out, either by Mon-
sieur Belleisle or Madame de Fontenay; but her walks
were made in sequestered places, not amongst the gay
throng of tourists who daily dipped themselves into the
sea. Her evenings were spent quietly at home. But she
was always met with the promise that the dulness of her
present life was transitory, that there were brighter days
in store.

That some mysterious work was going on Madeline
knew from the strange behaviour of her husband and the
widow, Sometimes he himself would disappear for several
days together, leaving his wife in the care of Madame ;
then the lady would disappear, and for several days
Madeline would be left alone with her husband ; then,
just as she was congratulating herself upon the relief, the
widow would return — ^looking more benign than ever^
and adding to Madeline's wonder by endless secret interviews
with Belleisle.

Had the girl's mind been occupied with this pair alone

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 89

she would certainly have thought their conduct more sus-
picious still, but she had other things to interest and
trouble her. Since that night when, dressed in diamonds
and lace, she had been taken to dine in public, she had
written to her guardian three times, and had waited
eagerly for the reply, which, she now began to fear, would
never come. The only explanation she could give of the
affair was that Mr. White, on hearing of her elopement,
had gone over to the school to look into the matter, and
that the investigation and journey had kept him a long
time from home, so that the letters written from time to
time by his penitent ward were lying unopened in his
Btudio in St. John's "Wood. Madeline had arrived at this
impotent conclusion, and was deriving some sad consolation
from it, when her little spell of peace was brought to an end.

She was seated in the sitting-room one night, silently
working at some embroidery; Belleisle reclining in an
easy-chair Dy the window, scanning the columns of ' Le
Journal pour Eire,' when the postman arrived and letters
were brought in — two for Belleisle and one for his wife.
The Frenchman took his, read them, returned them to
their envelopes, threw them carelessly on to a little table
at his side, and again concentrated his attention on the
more amusing contents of the paper, or rather he tried to
do so, for by this time it did not seem so easy for him to
concentrate his thoughts at all. His eyes, which had
hitherto travelled from line to line, now wandered from
column to column — then his hands fell slightly, lowering
the paper, and his eyes looked over the top at Madeline.

She had not moved from her seat ; her work lay in
her lap ; and her hands, now trembling violently, held the
open letter, upon which her eyes were fixed. Belleisle
threw the paper aside, and walked towards her.

' Madeline, what is the matter 7 '

The girl turned her white face towards him, gave him
the letter, then burst into a violent flood of tears. He
took the letter, and read as follows : —

' Madame Belleisle, — When you eloped from school ■with your
beggarly Erench tutor you brought disgrace upon yourself and me.
Eemain with your husband — be true to him, if you can — as for me,
I never -rish either to see or hear of you again.

M. 'Whitb,

90 MARTYItDOM OF MADELINE.

No sooner had Belleiale read the letter than he tore h
into fragments and threw them into the grate.

' The man is a villain and a coward,' he exclaimed ;
then, as Madeline rose to protest, he threw his arms around
her and kissed her tear-stained cheek.

, ' Forgive me, cherie,^ he said, ' the man may say what
he likes of me, but I cannot bear that he shall insult my
■wife. Listen, Madeline,' he continued, drawing her down
upon a seat beside him, ' I will correct your bad news with
good news, though I did not intend to tell you so soon ;
well, my wife, after all you did not marry a poor man. I
have had a good sum of money left to me and a fine house
in Paris — and I am going to dress you in a fashion becom-
ing to a rich man's wife, and take you to Paris for the
season. Tou understand me ? '

For the girl was looking at him as if she comprehended
nothing ; and now she only said —

' Leave me a few minutes alone.'

He kissed her and led her to the door, as if his only
wish in life was to bow to her wiU.

A few hours after, when husband and wife met again,
Madeline seemed to be transformed into a different being.
She walked straight up to her husband, put her hand into
his, and said —

* When are we going to Paris, Monsieur 7 '
He smiled strangely.

' You are eager to be gone 7 '

' Yes, I could not bear to continue this quiet life mow.'

' Madeline I '

' Yes.'

' You were not yourself this morning, so I did not tell
you all my news. Are you composed enough to listen to
me now ? '

'Yes.'

' Well, then, there is a condition attached to the will
which left me all the money — a condition to which I fear
you will not be inclined to accede, cMrie.'

Madeline raised her eyes to his.

'You have told me the news at a proper time then,
Monsieur ; I feel inclined to accede to anything to-day.'

♦ My wife,' said the Frenchman gravely, ' I would not

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 91

ask you to accede to anything wrong. "Well, the words
in the will are these : " Five thousand pounds to my dear
nephew, Emile Belleisle, if he is unwed. If he remain
unwed for one year after my decease, the sum of three
thousand pounds to be paid to him annually during his
life. If he marries within the year the said three
thousand pounds per annum to be paid to the State."
Now when my beloved relative died I was a single
man — when the news came to me I had been married
two days. Perhaps it was avaricious of me; but as
I was so wretchedly poor I could not bear the thought
of three thousand pounds per annum being taken from
mo and given to the State; so I thought, "I will say
nothing of being married ; I will take my Madeline to
the seaside, and live quietly with her until the year is
expired, and then the money will be mine to pour at her
feet." '

' And what has induced you to change your mind ? '

' My beloved one, you shall hear. I made a confidante
of my good aunt, Madame de Fontenay, and, though she
loves you not as I do, her woman's heart did you more
justice. She said, " Why should the child sufBer because
you have come into a fortune ? She has a good heart and
generous impulses. Tell her — throw yourself upon her
mercy — and let her enjoy your good fortune to the
full." '

Again he paused ; and again Madeline looked at him
inquiringly. What did it all mean? He was evidently
afraid to speak on without some encouragement from her;
and the encouragement was given.

Her curiosity being aroused, she argued within herself
it could do her no possible harm just to hear what he had
to propose.

' Well, M'sieur 7 ' she cried, and Belleisle spoke on.
His demand was simple in itself and easily acceded to. He
would take his Madeline to Paris in a few days, he said ;
deck her in silks, satins, and jewels; give her a season of
genuine Parisian life — if she would but consent to remove
that frail band of gold from the third finger of her left
hand ; call her husband " Cousin," Madame de Fontenay
" Maman," until the prescribed year had come to an end.

93 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

Madeline heard him without comment, and remahied
silent after he had ceased to speak. What could she do ?
Her conscience urged her not to accept. The man had
deceived her infamously already, and would not scruple to
do so again ; but then she remembered the letter which
she had received that morning, and the voice within her
was hushed. After all, she said to herself, what harm could
come of it ; she was secure against calumny, for she was
in reality Madame Belleisle — so that should the worst
come, and her relationship to the man be discovered, no
one could possibly blame her. And if she refused, what
was the alternative ? To live alone by the sea during all
the long, weary winter months, with such a past to reflect
on — and not a soul either to share her sorrows or her
moments of calmness and peace. The prospect was so
dismal that the girl shuddered, and, looking into her hus-
band's face, said hurriedly, as if she had strange misgivings
of herself—

' I consent. Monsieur, I consent — only let us get away
from this place, and perhaps the excitement of the journey
will take away this load from my heart.'

Just a week from that day three travellers were
journeying towards the gay French capital ; their names
were — the Vicomte de Belleisle, for the Frenchman pro-
fessed to inherit a title with his fortune ; Madame and
Mademoiselle de Fontenay.

CHAPTER XV.

BELLEISLE SPREADS HIS NET.

* Madeline — I wish you to do me a favour 7 '

' And that is, Monsieur ? '

' To wear to-night the satin dress and the pearl orna-
ments which I gave to you three weeks ago.'

% Belleisle was standing before his wife, buttoning the
kid gloves which reached almost to her elbow ; for she was
ready to take her usual morning drive with Madame de
Fontenay. The girl allowed him to finish his task, then
she spoke.

MARTYRDOM OF MABELmjS. 93

' Wh}' is it you wish me to wear that dress, Monsieur? '

' Because, che'rie, we shall have a new guest.'

' Indeed ? '

' A young French nobleman — ^whom, if we wish to
Btand well in society, it is our interest to fascinate.'

' To fascinate ! '

The ejaculation made Belleisle look sharply into his
wife's face. He was by no means pleased by what he saw
there. He opened his lips to speak, but was prevented by
the entrance of Madame de Fontenay.

The widow, dressed as usual in rich widow's mourning,
came quickly into the room, and took Madeline's gloved
hand in hers.

' A thousand apologies for having kept you waiting,'
Bhe said. ' Come, my child — Emile, be good enough to
see us to the carriage, Avhich has already waited some
minutes at the door.'

Belleisle, obedient to the command, conducted the
ladies down the oak staircase of the hotel, handed them
into the carriage which waited to receive them, and stood
bare-headed at the door to see it roll away. He smiled,
waved his hand and kissed the tips of his iingers — but
Madeline, to whom these blandishments were cast, had
already sunk back into the carriage, and relapsed into a
gloomy dream.

She had a good deal to think about— much to try and
explain to herself — and she had chosen this time as the
best for what she had to do.

They had been located in Paris for three months now,
and during that time she had led a life which puzzled even
herself. Gentle and confiding, guided wholly by her
husband and his accomplice, she had carried out their
wishes in every respect. She had dressed herself in the
fine dresses which were brought to her — driven about in a
carriage by the side of her soi-disant mother, and behaved
as she had been taught to the guests whom she met at her
husband's table.

' It was the behaviour of these guests which troubled
her and first set her speculating as to the kind of life into
which she had unwittingly been led. She was not aston-
ished that they should court her favours, for when she

94 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

announced herself single she laid herself open to the ad-
miration of single men — what astonished her waa that after
these gentlemen had ceased to grace with their presence
the hospitable board of the Vicomte de Belleisle, they
would acknowledge with a stony stare the graceful salute
of the widow if she happened to meet them during any of
her daily drives about the city.

It was curious, Madeline thought, and on the impulse
of the moment she mentioned the fact to her husband and
Madame. They looked significantly towards each other,
gave some slight explanation, and turned the conversation
to other things.

But Madeline was not satisfied ; she had noted the
look which had passed between the pair, and it made
her more curious than she had been before. What could
it mean ? There was some dark mystery about their life
which she must discover, ere it led her into serious harm.

But how to discover it? After, long pondering she
resolved to pick out from the innumerable guests who
frequented her husband's table some man to whom she
could speak fi:eely, and to question him.

The resolve made, she endeavoured to carry it out.
Every night when, attired in clinging satin or velvet, she
entered the luxurious dining-room by Madame de Pon-
tenay's side, her eye travelled from one place to another,
timidly looking for sympathy which never came. Although
the guests would flatter and flirt with her, there was not
one among them whom she felt she could really trust.

So the days and weeks wore on, hopelessly, sadly, des-
pite the glitter and gaudy show. Hope died within her
heart ; but suddenly it was revived.

' Madeline, dearest, you did not tell me this morning
whether or not you would do me the favour I asked of
you ? ' said Belleisle again that day after her drive was
over.

Madeline looked at him quietly.

' You wish me to look well to-night ? '

' My charming little one, you do always look well/
retorted the polite Frenchman. ' I wish you to look second
to no lady in Paris.'

* Very well, Monsieur. I will try.'

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 95

A new guest to dress for- ; some new flatteries to listen
to. The announcement was not novel, and yet Madeline
felt that night as she had never felt before. She had a
pleasure in dressing, a delight in watching herself grow
more beautiful under the busy hands of her maid, and,
when at length her toilet was complete, she sat with beat-
ing heart and heightened colour, as if awaiting the con-
summation of some great event.

She entered the dining-room, as she had done hundreds
of times before, by Madame de Fontenay's side. She
bowed, and shook hands with all she knew, and then was
introduced to the stranger.

' Monsieur le Marquis de Vaux — Mademoiselle de
Fontenay.'

Madeline inclined her head for a moment, then raising
her eyes she saw that she was receiving a low bow and a
deep blush from the stranger.

A tall fair young fellow, of some two- or three-and-
twenty, looking more like an English lad than a French
Marquis. Perhaps it was this English look which touched
Madeline's heart and made her feel that glow of sympathy
which she had waited for so long and thought would never
come.

How the dinner passed off that night Madeline never
knew. She sat as one in a dream, eating little, listening to
the busy hum of conversation about her, and ever con-
scious that a pair of feeble blue eyes were fixed upon her
face.

Dinner over, Madame de Fontenay rose, and Madeline,
taking the hint, followed her from the room. She did not
see any of the gentlemen again that night, and the widow
did not leave her until it was time to retire to rest.

Several days passed. Every day she met the Marquis
at dinner, and each time she met him his manner seemed
to change. Whenever he shook hands he gave her fingers
a slight pressure ; sometimes his eyes, after diligently
trying to meet hers, would fix upon her face a look fuU of
strange inquiry, which she, not comprehending, could not
reply to. Ere long his easy freshness wore off — his man-
ner grew nervous and changeful, his cheeks pale and
haggard; he seemed to become the slave of Eelleisle,

86 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

and at times glanced with almost terror-strlckan ey«s at
Madeliue.

What could it all mean 7 Every day Madeline grew
more troubled, more sick at heart.

She had resolved to elicit an explanation from the
nobleman, but she soon found that to be impossible. Now
that she watched for an opportunity she saw that she
had none. Although apparently a free agent, she was, in
reality, a prisoner — guarded and carefully watched either
by her husband or Madame de Fontenay. What was to be
done? Speak to him she must and would; stratagem
must be employed — but how 7

After long pondering and much thought, Madeline hit
upon a plan which she thought might possibly succeed.
Having got dressed for dinner one night, she dismissed her
maid, and, before the widow could come for her, hurriedly
wrote down the following lines : —

Monsieur, — I ■would like to see you and speak •with you alone.
Please meet me to-morxow night at nine o'clock in the lobby of the
Hotel Bellevue.

Madeline de Fontenat.

That evening when dinner was over and Madeline
rose to follow Madame de Fontenay from the room, she
deliberately shook hands with the Marquis.

' Good-night, Monsieur,' she said softly ; then her hand
was timidly withdrawn, and the Marquis, with a bow, let
his arm drop by his side.

Madeline retired early that night ; the next morning
she went her usual drive with her companion.

The air was bitterly cold, for winter had set in, and
Madeline, wrapped in furs, lay back in the carriage with
flushed cheeks and feverishly sparkling eyes, and inhaled
the chilly air with quick and feverish sighs.

' God only knows,' she was thinking, ' what trouble
this evening may bring ; a few hours hence and I shall
meet the Marquis, and, having met him, what can I say or
do ? I will throw myself upon his mercy — I will teil him
the truth, and, in return, demand it of him.'

To her amazement the Marquis did not appear at
dinner that night. She saw that Monsieur Belleisle was
worried by his absence, and that Madame de Fontenay,

MARTYRDOM OF MADEZINK 97

too, seemed strangely ill at ease. Dinner was hurried over
quickly, and the ladies retired. Having reached the
drawing-room, Madeline threw herself into an easy chair
and closed her eyes.

' I have a headache,' she said, in answer to Madame de
Fontenay's anxious inquiries. ' I am feverish to-night,
Madame, and I think I shall soon retire.' And the widow,
secretly glad of the opportunity of being alone that evening,
kissed the girl on both her cheeks, and soon withdrew.

Madeline was feverish. Now that the time was passing
so quickly, the thought of her coming interview weighed
upon her ; but, having made the appointment, she was
bound to keep it, or gravely compromise herself.

She drew aside her window curtain and looked out. It
was a fair still night, but growing every hour still colder.
She rang for her maid, and with her assistance took oiF her
dinner dress, and clad herself in one of the plainest cos-
tumes she possessed. When she was dressed, ready to
depart, she said —

' Remember, Augustine, my going out to-night is a
secret both from my mother and Monsieur Belleisle. If
they ask for me, say that I am still unwell, and have
retired early to rest.'

Before the girl, who was doubtless in Belleisle's confid-
ence, could reply or interfere, Madeline had hurried from
the room, and was in the open street.

The place of meeting was only a few minutes distant
from the hotel where she was dwelling ; she reached it
just as the clock struck nine. As she entered the door she
saw a gentleman standing with his back towards her — the
only other living being in the great vestibule.
Madeline approached him, questioningly.

'Monsieur?'

He turned with an exclamation — she recoiled. The
eyes looking so steadily into hers belonged to a face which
^e remembered well. She was face to face with the young
Englishman whom she had met on the night of her elope-
ment from school.

98 MABTYBDOM OF MADELINH.

CHAPTER XVI.

'WHICH DO YOn PITT?'

Dismayed at the unexpected encounter, Madeline gazed at
the Englishman for a time in speechless confdsion ; then
she turned her head and gazed helplessly around.

' Mademoiselle,' said the young man, quietly, ' I fear
you are not prepared for this meeting with me. Well, let
me tell you I am here on an errand of dufy, not pleasure.
My friend, the Marquis de Vaux, has placed this a&ir
entirely in my hands '

' Oh, Monsieur ! '

'Pray do not interrupt me. Mademoiselle. I have
little to say, so our interview can be brief — it wiU be better
for us both. I had the pleasure of meeting .you once
before — only once, when I offered you my assistance, be-
cause I feared you needed some one to pluck you from the
clutches of that Frenchman, in whose company you were
staying at the hotel. But when I offered you my help I
thought you were some pure-minded, misguided English
girl. I did not know that you were the mistress of a
scoundrel, and that you were making your way to Paris to
become the decoy for a gambling hell.'

' Monsieur ! monsieur ! '

' Pray, hear me out. 'Tis some weeks now since I
discovered whither my seemingly virtuous English girl
had flown. I have seen you driving in the crowded
thoroughfares of Paris, smiling and bowing to the miser-
able wretches whom your smiles have brought to ruin. I
saw you, and said nothing. Had you been discreet, I
should have spaxed you. But since you seem to have no
discretion, since you have thought it pastime to delude and
cause the ruin of a friend of mine, I give you due notice I
shall spare you no more. Here are the letters which from
time to time you have written to my friend, and which
your trusty servant has delivered for you; I give you two
days to leave Paris with your protector ; if, at the end of
that time, you still linger here, I shall speak to the police,
and let the law take its course.'

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE 99

Without another word he walked away.
Madeline did not move ; she stood like one turned to
Btone. In her hand ,she held a packet of letters, while the
words ' decoy of a gambling hell ' rang with strange echoes
in her brain. How long she stood there she did not know ;
the sharp breath of the night air brushing her cheek, as
she tottered from the hotel, recalled her to herself. She
shiveringly drew her cloak around her and walked —
home.

The smart French maid was amazed to see her mistress
back so early.

"With a wave of the hand Madeline stopped all question,
ing and dismissed the girl for the night. Then she sat
down to think. How her head ached 1 How cold and
shivering and wretched she felt I Days and nights seemed
to have gone by since she started off on her strange errand
that evening. In reality only a few hours had passed.
How those few hours had changed her !

Presently she remembered the packet which the
Englishman had given her. She took it from her pocket,
burst the band which held it, and the letters were
scattered on her dressing-table. She took up one, opened
it, and read, in what appeared to be her own handwrit-
ing-
Be not so hasty, my dear friend. I must break the news gently
to my beloved mother, who cannot bear the thought of parting with
me. Our behaviour in public must not alter, but be sure I adore you.
A thousand greetings from Madeline.

Again—

Be cautious in your behaviour, and above all try to please the
Vieomte, my cousin. Do anything he wishes you — it will come all
right in the end. He has a stupid love of play — indulge him ; if he
wins firom you he shall be made afterwards to restore.

Madeline read the letters over and over again. She
picked up several others, and found them all to be in the
same tone — protestations of love for the Marquis and
prayers to him not to offend Monsieur Belleisle, of whom,
she avowed, she stopd in the greatest fear — and the forgeries
were so good as almost to deceive herself.

The past was all clear to her now — she knew what ehe
h2

100 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

had done and what she was ; she recognised the true worth
of the man she had married, and of the woman who called
herself her friend.

What should she do ? whither should she go 7 For
the first time in her life she could understand the feeling
which prompted wretched outcast women to stand upon
the parapet of a bridge and cast their miserable bodies
into the depths of the blackened river ; at least their woes
would be ended — their weary bodies be at rest. She felt
that such a death would be acceptable to her that night.
Oh, if she could only leap into the darkness, and end it
all!

She gathered up the letters, which still lay upon her
table, threw off her bonnet, which lay like a weight upon
her head, and opened her door. It was stiU early enough
for Belleisle to be up. She would see him, speak to him ;
she could not wait another hour, with that newly acquired
knowledge on her mind.

With this idea she left her chamber, looked first into
one room, then another — and was about to return to her
own in despair, when she was arrested by the sound of
voices, which she recognised as those of her husband and
Madame de Fontenay. She paused and listened. The
pair were closeted in Madame de Fontenay's private room,
and their conversation was of an exciting nature.

Madeline soon heard her own name.

'Emile, you are a fool,' says Madame de Fontenay;
' why he stays away I know not. I only know that one
little note from Madeline will bring him back again.'

' And if he comes ? '

' If he comes, mon ami, you can win from him a few
more hundreds, and then make a quarrel, refuse to give
him the little one's hand, and rid yourself of him for
ever.'

For a time they were silent, or spoke in undertones.
Madeline was about to open the door and break up their
converse, when the widow raised her voice and spoke
again.

' You are a fool,' she said hotly, ' and although I advise
you well, you, by your bungling, upset all my plans. Did
I not advise you to provide for the future by entering a

MARTTItJDOM OP MAHELtNE. \ 101

good school, and marrying, either by fair means or foul, the
richest girl that the rich school contained ? Yes. But
you, like a fool, ran off with the poorest, and did your very
best to ensure your own ruin.'

' I did not know that the girl was poor.'

' Did not know I it was your duty, my friend, to ascer-
tain that she was rich. Well, we need not complain now.
Thanks to me again, the silly girl has been useful to you,
and will be so again. Listen, then '

But Madeline, trembling outside, could bear it no
longer ; she turned the handle of the door, and entered
the room.

She still wore her walking dress ; her face was white
as death, her hands trembling and cold ; while her fingers
closed nervously around the packet of letters which she held.

Madame de Fontenay, who believed that her dupe was
quietly sleeping, gave a little scream ; Belleisle started to
his feet.

' Madeline, diahle ! what brings you here ? ' he ex-
claimed, thrown off his guard.

For a moment Madeline did not answer him. She
stood apparently calm and collected, but with a face whiter
than that of the dead, fixing her large blue eyes upon
first one and then another of the faces before her.

' You are a villain ! ' she said at length, .walking
steadily up to Monsieur Belleisle; ' you have tried by
cruel, cold-blooded falsehood to compass my ruin ; you
have nearly succeeded, but; thank God, I have found you
out at last.'

Livid with rage, and completely taken off his guard,
Belleisle stood with clenched fists, as if ready to strike his
victim.

Madame de Fontenay stepped forward to restrain him,
but Madeline stood her ground.

' Do not think to frighten me,' she said; 'those days
are past. Monsieur Belleisle ; though you were fifty times
my husbaind, you shall be punished for all that you have
done to me.'

' Madeline, my love, be reasonable,' said Madame de
Fontenay, ' you are under some misapprehension — ^let me
explain ! '

102 martthbom op madslinb

Let you explain, Madame ! you did that admirably to
Monsieur Belleisle before I entered the room. I know that
you are the cause of all this evil ; I know it is through
your wicked prompting that Monsieur Belleisle has been
induced to make me what I am ; I know that you have
plotted together to bring about the ruin of a poor girl
who never did you harm. With regard to you I am power-
less, but upon that man, if there is any justice in the world,
I will be revenged.'

By this time Belleisle had partly recovered his com-
posure. He walked up to the angry girl, and asked
quietly —

* How will you be revenged ? Tell me that ! '

*I will prosecute you for forgery; you wrote these
letters to the Marquis de Vaux ; you forged Mr. White's
writing, and sent a letter to me ; he shall prosecute you
too.'

Monsieur Belleisle turned whiter stUl.

' It would be a new sensation in court,' he said ; * a
young English girl prosecuting her French paramour. It
would give you notoriety doubtless, Mademoiselle.'

' What do you mean ? '

' What I say — you are not my wife, thank God. I was
by no means such a fool as you think. Mademoiselle. I
went through a mock ceremony with you — ^thinking I
would have a real one if I found your fortune was worth
the sacrifice. I found it was not; therefore I have
pleasure in informing you that you are free. — ^After all,
there is not very much harm done, Mademoiselle, and it
may give you pleasure to know that by gracing my table
with your presence, and smiling upon my guests, you have
been the means of bringing some money to me. No one
but my good aunt knows that you have been my mistress
— and with her I am sure your secret is safe.'

Still Madeline was silent ; so, after a pause, Belleisle
continued,

' Now that I have explained you will perceive, I am
sure, the necessity for silence. If you dare to make a
scene I shall tell the whole story, and I will bring dozens
of witnesses to prove that you played very willingly into
my hands. If you are silent, I too will be silent. You

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 103

Can go to England, marry an Englishman, and become a

model English -wife '

The Frenchman paused, for Madeline, uttering a low
moan, at last sank swooning upon the floor.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE BAKS BROKEN.

When Madeline recovered her senses she was lying upon
her bed, with her maid bending anxiously above her. As
she opened her eyes the girl uttered a cry.

' Oh, thank God, you have awakened, dear Mademoiselle.
I feared your eyes were closed for ever.'

But, without replying, Madeline only closed her eyes
and became insensible again.

What was happening nobody knew, and the servants
became very alarmed. It was strange, they thought, that
at such a time, when the young lady was sick to death, her
mother and cousin should leave the house ; and yet they
had gone, and had only just left a little note for Made-
moiselle. It was well for Madeline that her own maid was
kindly. She kept by her mistress's side, although, one by
one, the other servants fled.

Two days after the departure of Monsieur Belleisle, a
strange English gentleman called at the hotel and asked for
him. On being told that he was gone, and that the only
occupant of the rooms now was a young lady who was
supposed to be dying, he asked to be allowed to see her,
and was conducted at once to Madeline's apartment.

The young man walked up the stairs with the memory
of his last meeting with the girl still in his mind. He felt
very bitter against her, but the moment he entered the
room where she was lying his bitterness melted away.
How pale and ill she looked 1 How wasted, wretched, and
sad 1 He bent for a moment to sadly regard the uncon-
scious face, he pressed the wasted hand, felt the pulse ;
then turned to the maid, who stood looking on in mute
amazement.

When Madeline was apparently prosperous, she did not

104 MABTlRDOM OP MADELtNt!.

enter into his calculations at all. Once, ■when he thought
her in need of help, he had offered it — now, when he knew
her to be in need, he gave it. By a few well-applied
questions he extracted from the maid such facts as, coupled
with those in his own knowledge, gave him a pretty correct
idea of how things stood.

He still believed Madeline to be culpable — there was
nothing to convince him to the contrary ; but she was a
countrywomaii in distress, and he was still man enough to
assist her.' He aiinounced his intention of looking after
her, until such time as her relations could be communicated
with and she could be left in proper hands.

He provided a proper doctor, and sent a professional
nurse to share the vigils of Madeline's French maid.

It was during these nights of nursing that the poor
parched lips of the invalid muttered words which astonished
the Englishman. For, little by little, word by word, she
told him all. Sometimes she called on Belleisle for mercy,
begging him to take her back to school; then she re-
proached him for having forced her into a marriage ; then
she cried and sobbed, vowing vehemently that she w^as his
■yvife. She spoke again and again of the forged letters to
the Marquis de Vaux ; then she cried passionately, saying
she could never face her guardian any more.

' Delirious people never lie,' said the young man to
himself one evening, as he stood by the bed, plaintively
regarding the pale, pinched face. ' If she had not been so
ill I could not have extracted so much from her by days
of cross-questioning. Poor, misguided, miserable child^—
another instance of the martyrdom of woman to the
treachery of man. God help her ! God help her ! '

Having told this much, Madeline told more. By in-
terrogating her during her saner moments, he learned that
her guardian was a IVir. White, who lived in a studio in
St. John's "Wood. He risked sending a telegram, and
somewhat to his amazement got a reply —

' God bless you for the information. I am starting for
Paris forthwith.'

Having read the telegram, which came to his lodgings,
he folded it, put it in his pocket, and walked up to the
house where Madeline still lay. Good news awaited him

MABTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 106

there. The maid's face was very bright, and the cause of
that brightness was that Mademoiselle had awakened,
taken some nourishment, and fallen into a natural sleep.
The fever had abated, and the doctor said that the crisis
was now past.

' Would Monsieur like to see Mademoiselle 7 '

He shook his head.

' You must not mention to her that I have been here
at all. But there will be an English gentleman here
to-morrow, whom she will be glad to see.'

Having arranged everything to his satisfaction, he
returned to his lodgings, sat down before a roaring wood
fire, lit a cigar, and began to think.

His watching was at an end ; his long, sad looks at
Madeline were over ; and, to his own surprise, he felt a
Bort of regret. . During the last few days he had never
beeri free from self-reproach. He had met her at a time
when his help might have saved her — yet, because she
repulsed him, he had quietly stood aloof and let her drift
to her ruin. Yes, although his reason told him he was not
to blame, in his own mind he felt culpable.

Well, it was all over now ; self-accusation and recrim-
ination would never obliterate that dark past from the
girl's life — she must live and suffer — but he vowed to him-
self that it should be his endeavour to make that suffering
easy for her to bear.

During that night he slept little, but when he did sleep
he dreamed of Madeline. Now he clasped her in his arms
and plunged with her into wild waters — again he drew her
from some darkly surging river, or with uplifted knife
stood waiting to plunge it into the heart of the grinning
Frenchman. He was glad when daylight relieved him
from such dreams.

His first care was to ascertain how his charge was
thriving. The report was favourable again ; she had passed
a peaceful night, and in the morning she had lain for half
an hour talking rationally to her maid. She heard with
perfect equanimity of the departure and continued absence
of Madame de Fontenay and Monsieur Belleisle. She
opened and read the letter which Monsieur had left for
her, then quietly burned it in the candle which stood

106 MARTYRDOM OP MADELINE.

beside her bed. She thanked her maid for her kindness,
said she must be removed from that place, and then
dropped into an exhausted sleep again.

Well satisfied with the account, the young man again
returned home to await the arrival of Mr. White. In the
afternoon White came. 'Twas no other, of course, than
our old acquaintance, but so changed that bis nearest friend
would hardly know him. His cheeks were ghastly, his
eyes sunken, his hair and beard unkempt, and his clothes
in a deplorable condition with the long and tedious travel.
Despite his disreputable appearance, however, the young
man's heart went out to him at once. He gave him a
cordial welcome, and tenderly told him all that he knew
about his ward. In return, White gave his confidence,
and then the two men walked together to' the house where
Madeline lay. White's hands trembled, his cheeks turned
very pale, when the maid came to conduct him to Madeline's
room. He went up alone.

In one of the lower salons the other awaited his return.

One hour passed, then another ; he read one, read all
the papers, walked restless up and down in growing excite-
ment — till White returned to him, with cheeks more
pinched and ghastly than they had been before, and pitiful
tears in his eyes. He laid his tremulous hand upon the
young man's shoulder.

' She has sobbed herself to sleep,' he said, ' Would
you like to see her now ? ' The other, unable to resist
went again into the room where Madeline lay. She was
quite unconscious of his presence, in a deep but troubled
sleep. Her loose fair hair was scattered upon the pillow^
her breath came in short quick pants, which' sometimes
turned to sobs. Upon one hand her cheek was resting,
the other lay carelessly upon the coverlet.

The young man raised her hand gently, and pressed it
to his lips.

' Farewell 1 ' he murmured, ' God knows if we shall
meet again 1 '

MARTTRLOM OF MADELINE. 107

CHAPTER XVm.

IMOGEN.

Behind the scenes of the Eoyal Parthenon Theatre, on a
sultry evening in July. The first act of the play was over,
and the carpenters were busy setting and preparing the
scenes for the next act, vrhile Hart, the stage manager,
stood perspiring under his white hat with his back to the
curtain. Figures in all kinds of costumes coming and
going ; female voices chattering, and male voices grumbling,
made the confusion worse confounded, when Abrahams,
the manager, sumptuously attired in a dress suit which
might have been borrowed from a slop-shop in Hounds-
ditch, came panting on to the stage.

' Well,' he asked, gazing at Hart with a bloodshot,
questioning eye ; ' is it a go, will she do ? '

The stage manager was too old a bird to commit him-
Belf so early in the evening, but he answered off-hand, with
one eye on the carpenters, the other on his employer —

' I think she will ; what do they say in front 1 '

' Say ! They're in ecstasies. Cakeford says she is the
biggest thing he's seen since DescMe. "Why the devil
doesn't Brady act up to her ? Well, it'll depend now on
her legs — if her legs are all right when she comes on as the
boy.'

' That's in Act HI. 7 '

' Yes, in Act IH. Hay says she's too thin, but didn't
she have them in the garden scene 1 It was splendid.
Well, I'm going to speak to her, and tell her the impression
she has made. I think it's all right.'

So saying, the manager pushed his way across the stage,
and, winding in and out among set pieces, wings, loose
pieces of canvas, and all the flotsam and jetsam of the
theatre, made his way along a dirty passage till he came to
a dingy door which stood ajar. Here he knocked, and,
without waiting for an invitation, entered a largish chamber,
hastily fitted up as an actress's retiring room. Mirrors in
various degrees of magnificent dinginess were hung on
every side ; a large gilded sofa, occasionally used on the

168 MARTYRDOM 0^ MADELINE

stage in so-called ' banqueting ' scenes, stood in a corner,
chairs of divers gaudy patterns were scattered here and
there, and in the centre was a white table with gilded legs.

At the further end of the room were drawn crimson
curtains, communicating with the more private portion of
the dressing-room.

' Hallo, White, here you are ! ' exclaimed the manager
to a solitary figure sitting on the gilded sofa, and smoking
a cigar.

The dramatic author (for it was he) rose and seized the
manager's hand. His own was trembling like a leaf, and
his eyes were dim with moisture very like tears.

' It's all right, then ? ' he said eagerly, almost plead-
ingly.

' If she goes on as she has begun she'll astonish the
town. Ah, here she is.'

As he spoke the curtains were drawn back by the hand
of a female attendant, and the heroine of the evening
appeared, clad in her ' change ' for the second act — ^an
exquisite dress of white samite thinly embroidered with
silver. Locks of flaxen hair fell loosely over her shotdders,
and set in its midst was a face of the most dream-like and
spiritual beauty, lit by two large eyes which, once seen,
were never to be forgotten. In another woman perhaps
those eyes might have seemed too pale, too forget-m.e-not
like in hue, but in her they harmonised strangely with the
wonderful hair and tremulous mobile lips. Tall, slight,
and yet finely and even fully formed, the actress was in the
prime of her womanhood, and as she advanced with eyes
full of limpid light and mouth tremulously smiling, she
looked supremely bright and fair.

Yet despite her loveliness and despite her air of evanes-
cent happiness, there was something in her look, and still
more in her manner, which seemed full of nameless trouble.
There was too quick an attempt to seem unrestrained and
gay, too strange a readiness to seize light occasions for
nervous laughter, too impatient a sense of her own beauty,
and of the light sparkling upon it. Her very gesture at
times was at once imperious and reckless ; she seemed like
one who commands, yet shrinks from the obedience o^
some wild animal crouching at her feet.

MARTYRDOM OF MADMLINE. 109

What was strangest of all, she seemed suddenly, in the
midst of her gayest laughter, to pause with a kind of listen-
ing terror, while the light faded from her eyes, and the
sickness of a nameless horror touched every feature of her
face.

It is not to be supposed that these fluctuations of feeling
would at once have struck any one but a.very close observer.
To the ordinary eye, such as that of Abrahams, hers was
Bimply a lovely face, characterised by marvellous lights and
shades of expression.

She advanced smiling into the room, and held out both
her hands to White.

' Oh, Mr. White,' she said, with something of her
childish manner, ' I am so glad you have come round.'

White took both her hands and held them tenderly in
his own, while the manager beamed and nodded.

' How do you feel, my dear ? ' asked the latter. ' Nerves
all right, eh ? Shall I send you up some champagne ? '

' iSTo, thank you ; I never .drink wine.'

' And right you are,' said Abrahams. ' It's the curse
of the profession, and death to a pretty face. Look at
Mrs. Claudesley ! She was the talk of the town for a
whole season, and yet she drank herself to death. The
very year she died they offered her one hundred pounds a
night to star in the States, and if she had gone and kept
sober she might have come back with twenty thousand
pounds.'

The actress was not listening, her smile had faded, and
she was gazing with strange wistfulness into White's face.
She did not speak ; but her look said something more sig-
nificant than words, something that filled his eyes and
throat with tears, and misted the glasses of his spectacles.
He squeezed her little fingers in his trembling hands.

' I can't tell you how happy I am,' he said. ' More
than happy ;' proud ! This is a great night for all of us —
a great night.'

' You think so ? ' she returned sweetly ; ' then I am
quite satisfied. I don't care for what the others think ; I
only want to please you 1 ' and though her eyes were quite
dry, she passed her hands lightly across them, as if brush-
ing away a tear.

no MARTmDOM OF MADELINE.

Abrahams looked at her with growing admiration.

' How about the big scene in Act III. ? ' he asked.
'Do you feel quite up to it, my dear 7 Well, that's right;
and what White here says I say — this will be a great night
for all of us, if you only finish as you've begun.'

Here there was a rap at the door and a shrill voice,
' Overture's finished. Miss Vere ; ' whereupon the three,
still in conversation, moved slowly towards the stage.

The play was ' Cymbeline,' and it was ' Miss Vere's '
first appearance in the character of ' Imogen.' The regular
season at the Parthenon being over, and the eminent
tragedian who was generally its chief ornament being away
in the provinces, Abrahams had been persuaded to try the
new actress in an imfamiliar Shakespearian character.

Of course, as is usual in such cases, the play was
' scamped.' All the old scenery of the theatre was called
into requisition, and the costumes were a startling combi-
nation of all the early periods. This gave the critics of
the daily newspapers an opportunity of saying, next morn-
ing, that ' the new and appropriate scenery was everything
that could be desired, and that the strictest accuracy was
observed in the minutest detail of properties and costumes.'

But die play-going public had come that night not to
see the fine scenery or good costumes, not to listen to the
dreary spouting of the members of the stock company, but
to witness the first London appearance of a young lady of
whom rumour had prophesied great things. The house
was crammed with 'paper.' The critics of the big papers
sat in the stalls, and the critics of the small papers were
sprinkled through the dress circle. Literature, art, and
the drama were well represented. Sir Tilbury Swallow,
who had married the once famous actress. Miss Fawn, and
who had been knighted for his literary services by the
reigning family, occupied a private box with his still
beautiful wife. Professional beauties, of less conspicuous
virtue, shone resplendent everywhere. Deep in a stall,
buried in the abyss of his own personality, and glaring
thence occasionally, with saturnine cheek and lack-lustre
eye, sat the great Mr. Blanco Serena, the pre-Eaphaelite
painter. The fact was, nearly every individual present in
the better parts of the house possessed, or was supposed to

MARTYUDOM OF MADELINE. Ill

possess, some sort of interest in dramatic, pictorial, or
literary art.

; In the centre of the stalls, however, sat a figure whose
appearance was in striking contrast to that of l£e habitual
theatre-goera surrounding him. In any gathering he
would have attracted attention ; in the present he was
specially remarkable. He was a broad-shouldered mus-
cular man of about thirty, with a face bronzed to a deep
brown by exposure to the tropical sun. He had a high
forehead, black eyes, a square, determined jaw ; a thick,
black moustache covered his upper lip, but his cheeks
■were clean shaven. Even in his well-made dress suit, with
faultless linen and spotless tie, he had the appearance of a
man whose true place would be leading a forlorn hope or
standing alone in some position of loneliness and peril. He
sat and listened, or rose and looked about him between the
acts, with the air of one to whom a theatre was more or
less unfamiliar, and he listened to the whole play, even to
the ranting of the subordinate actors, with the approval of
a man enjoying a new sensation, and quite unable or
unwilling to be dissatisfied or critical.

But from the first moment the new actress' appeared
upon the stage this man had watched her in fascinated
amazement, and as long as she remained there he had eyes
for nothing else but her face. As the play proceeded, his
expression changed from one of wonder and doubt to"
another of deep surprise and pain. His brows were knitted,
his countenance stra.)gely troubled. When the curtain
feU on thff first act he jot moveless, and made no attempt
to join in the general applause.

Throughout the second act he remained in the same
position, troubled and expectant. When it ended he rose
quietly, and made his way to the saloon.

Various excited groups were congregated here. One

group, consisting of several very young gentlemen, a little

bald-headed man with a simpering voice, and a swarthy

lean man wrapt up to the throat in a large white muffler,

. clearly representing the fourth estate.

The lean man in the muffler was holding forth with
more zeal than eloquence on the personal appearance of the
debutante.

113 MARTTRSOM OF MADELINE.

'Where did sbe come from?' asked one of the very
young gentlemen. ' Where did Abrahams pick her up ? '

' I've heard that her .parents lived in Paris,' answered
the lean man, 'and that she used to sing once, when quite
a young girl, at a cafe chantant. White knows aU about
her, I believe.'

' What power she showed in' the cave scene 1 ' said another
very young gentleman.

'Do you think so?' the lean man said, reflectively.
' She rather disappointed me there. And I don't like her
delivery of the blank verse.'

' Beastly immoral play ! ' drawled the man with the
bald head. ' What the French call scdbreux 1 '

' Why, it's Shakespeare,' gasped one of the very young
gentlemen.

' Are you sure o£ that ? And if it is ? . Shakespeare or
no Shakespeare, the licenser would suppress it if it were
submitted to him now for the first time.'

' Oh, oh 1 ' groaned several voices.

' And' what is more,' persisted the man with the bald
head, ' no manager could look at such rubbish. It's very
good poetry, and aU that sort of thing, but it's what I call

a bad play, though you fellows haven't the pluck to

say so 1 '

Here there was a general laugh.

' What do yon think of the Imogen ? ' asked the lean
man.

' Pretty good,' drawled the other. ' When I was an
attache in Constantinople, I once saw a woman's hand
waving out of a house on the Bosphorus. I jimiped out of
my boat, and went into the house, tripping an eunuch at
the door who tried to prevent me. I ran from room to
room till I came to a splendid open court with a fountain,
and there I saw a veiled woman sitting in the sun. The
moment I appeared she lifted up the veil, and showed the
loveliest face I ever saw. I need not give you the sequel
of the story. She had seen me at a distance, and been
struck by my style of beauty. I afterwards found she
was the favourite wife of the Grand Vizier. Well, she was
the very image of the girl who is playing " Imogen " to-
night. Poor little SchelsalmaigJir.'

MARTYB.BOM OF MADELINE. 113

' Was that her name ? '

' Yes ; old Muzid afterwards found out about my visits,
and the cruel bowstring and sack business terminated the
adventure. I tried to save her, but they found some of
my Turkish letters (I write Turkish rathef better than I
write English) on her person. She kept them too long, in
the hopes of getting some one to read them to her, for she
couldn't read herself.'

Standing close to the group the swarthj"- gentleman with
the moustache had listened to the close with a smile as he
sipped a glass of lemonade. Suddenly he felt himself
touched upon the shoulder, while a hasty voice exclaimed,
' Sutherland ! is it possible ! '

Turning quietly, he found himself face to face with a
bright-eyed, full-bearded little man of forty, who used an
eye-glass, and spoke with the greatest suspicion of a
Scottish accent.

'CriefE?'

' Yes,' returned the little man. ' But is it yourself 7
How long have you been in England ? '

' Just one month,' said Sutherland.

' When I last heard of you, you were somewhere in
the wilds of North America. There was a paragraph
going round that you had joined a Free-love community
in the Western States. Well, of all the places in the
world, the last I should expect to find you in is a theatre.
Do you like the new actress ? '

' I am not a very good judge of acting,' replied Suther-
land, quietly ; ' but if you mean do I like her person-
ally '

' Well, it comes to that.'

' Then I think she is the most beautiful woman I have
ever seen.'

' You don't say that ! ' said the little man, opening his
eyes.

' Only once in my life before, and that was years ago,
under extraordinary circum.stances, have I seen such a face.
Shotild it be the same — but no, that is scarcely possible.
Do you know anything of Miss Vere's history ? '

' Nothing.'

' Of course, it is not her first appearance on the stage.'
I

114 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

' I think not. She has had some years of practice in
the provinces. If you are interested in the lady, coma
and sup with me to-night at the Harum-Scarum.'

'What's that?'

' A club of night-birds, where the small critics com-
pare their notes and pick each other's brains for ideas.
The strongest will and the .loudest voice settle the matter,
and what they say overnight is echoed in a dozen news-
papers next morning.'

' But what has that to do with Miss Vere 7 '

' Everything. You'll hear all that is known concerning
her, for the night-birds know everything, and — but the
curtain's going up. Of course you'll come 7 '

' Yes,' said Sutherland ; and the two men returned to
their places in the auditorium.

The third act was a revelation and a surprise, even to
those who believed most in the new actress. In the great
scene with Pisanio, when, on her way to Milford Haven,
Imogen learns for the first time her husband's diabolical
suspicions, the actress fairly took the house by storm, till,
at the great speech ending —

Prithee dispatch.
•The lamb entreats the butcher ; where's thy knife ?
Thoti art too slow to do thy master's bidding,
When I deserve it, too ! —

the whole audience rose in one surge of vehement applause.
Pale as death, with her large eyes gleaming, and her deli-
cate frame trembling like a leaf. Miss Vere trembled before
the unexpected tempest, and it was some minutes before the
scene could proceed. When it did so" the actress seemed
moved to the quick, and the pensive wail — ■

Talk thy tongue ■weary ; speak
I have heard I am a strumpet ; and mine ear,
Therein false strack, can make no greater wound,
Nor tent to bottom that —

was uttered with a melan'choly so infinite, pathos so des-
pairing, that Sutherland, who had heard the excitement
and enthusiasm, felt the words sink like lead into his heart.
His own face was livid now, despite its tan, and a shiver
ran through his veins.

A scene or two later, when Imogen is transformed into

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 115

Fidele, the actress still held her audience, but with a less
mysterious fascination. In her boy's dress, which was
charmingly delicate and becoming, she fully warranted the
exclamation of Belarius on first beholding her —

By Jupiter, an angel ! or, if not,

An earthly paragon ! Behold diTineness

No elder than a boy.

Her acting, moreover, was pathetic in the extreme ; and
thenceforth, until the . end of the play, her success was
assured.

The curtain fell. Call after call greeted the actress,
who looked completely exhausted by her efforts, and could
scarcely conjure up a smile, as she accepted the bouquets
which had been liberally provided for her. White sat in
the dark background of a box, crying for joy.

As the audience streamed out of the theatre, Sutherland
came shoulder to shoulder with little Crieff, who had in-
vited him to sup at the Harum-Scarum.

' How glum you look ! ' said Crieff. ' Are you disap-
pointed ? '

' Disappointed, no 1 '

' You don't seem to, share the general enthusiasm ? '

' I do share it, but, as I told you, I am no judge of
acting.'

' Well, come and hear what the night-birds say about
it. Shall we walk to the clu^ ? It's only a few streets off.'

Arm-in-arm in the moonlight the two men walked
away. Sutherland had lighted a cigar, and now, while the
other chattered, he scarcely uttered a word.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE H.AEUM- SC AKUMS.

Mr. J. Watson Crieff was assistant editor of the
' Charing Cross Chronicle,' an evening newspaper devoted
to smart writing and the ponservation of Church and State.
He was a hard-working Scotchman, with no pretensions to
literary attainments, but honourably connected with jour-

lie mahttrdom op madezim.

nalism in many ways. He was not a regular theatre-goer^
still less a professed critic, but he sometimes, as on the
present occasion, went to see a Shakespearian performance,
and wrote about it afterwards honestly and well.

Passing along the Strand, he led his friend down a
street running at right angles to the banks of the Thames,
and soon entered the dingy building where the Harum-
Scartims were accustomed to hold high festival. Proceei-
ing upstairs, he entered a large room, at one end of which
was a fire and a silver grill, presided over by a man-cook
dressed in white. The room was becoming crowded by
men of all degrees and ages, clean-shaven actors and
hirsute journalists having the preponderance, and more
than one greeted Crieff by name.-'* He soon found a table,
and ordered a plain supper for himself and friend. A loud
chatter filled the air, and every one was talking of the
debutante at the Parthenon. Among the other faces around
him Sutherland at once recognised the very young gentle-
man and the lean man in the muifier whom he had heard
discoursing at the theatre saloon.

' It's all right,' said Crieff quietly. ' The jury are
bringing in an unanimous verdict of " successful." I
-think I shall abuse her in the "Chronicle" just to show
I've a mind of my own.'

' If you do, I'll call you out ! '

' There's Abrahams the manager, button-holing Day
of the " Sun," and rolling his eyes in well-feigned enthu-
siasm. If you watch him, you'll see him take the jury
seriatim, and go through the same performance with every
one of them. I thought so ! He's ordering champagne.'

' Who is that gentleman ? ' asked Sutherland, glancing
towards the next table, where a little bald-headed man,
surrounded by many admiring friends, was trifling with
the cruet. Sutherland had recognised the individual who,
in the saloon of the theatre, had introduced the little
anecdote of his amours in Constantinople.

' What, don't you know him ? That's Lagardere, of
the " Plain Speaker." '

' Indeed ! A journal, I presume 7 '

' The journal of the period, based upon the new prin-
ciple of extenuating nothing and setting down everything

MARTTRDOiM OF MADELINE. 117

in malice. Lagardere can tell you to a nicety where La
Perichole buys her false teeth, how much money Mrs.
Harkaway Spangle pays her washerwoman weekly, and
when any given leader of society is likely to pawn her
diamonds or elope with her cook. You know Tennyson's
lines —

A lie which is all a lie can be met with and fought with outright,
But a lie which is half a truth is a harder matter to fight !

Lagardere has achieved the complete art of so mingling
truth and falsehood together that it is impossible even for
himself to distinguish the one from the other. What wine
will you take ? '

' None. I am a water drinker.'

' Still ! Well, you thrive upon the crystal draught.
Hallo, what's Lagardere romancing about now ? '

As he spoke the gentleman in question was leaning
back in his chair, and in his peculiar drawl, to the edifica-
tion of his immediate friends and admirers, speaking aa
follows : —

' When I was with the army in Schleswig-Holstein, the
Hereditary Duke of Schlagberg-Schwangau lived in the
same hotel, and there was an English girl stopping with
hi^n, disguised as a young officer. The Duke laid a wager
that this girl would smoke more cigars than I could in the
course of twelve hours. Bismarck, who dropped in by
accident, held the stakes. We began at six p.m. and
smoked on till four in the morning, when the girl gave in
and had to be carried oflf to bed. I mention the fact be-
cause she was exactly the same height as the girl who
acted to-night.'

' Impossible ! Can't be the same ! ' said some one,
feebly.

' Can't say, I'm sure. But it's the same sort of face,
and the girl, when you provided her with champagne, used
to recite splendidly.'

' How long was this ago, Lagardere ? ' asked Crieff,
leaning over towards the other table.

' About twelve years. The date is fixed in my memory,
because it was the year I fought the duel with the Aiistriap
general at Yienna,'

118 MARTYRDOM OF MADBLINH.

Crieff smiled.

' And if,' lie said, ' we put down Miss Vere's age at
four-and-twenty (I believe she's scarcely twenty-two), she
must have been, at the period you name, exactly twelve
years old.'

A general laugh greeted this retort ; but the journalist
was not at all disconcerted.

' You see these sort of women are all so much alike,' he
drawled. ' I've seen the same type of face in the harem
at Stamboul, among the nautch -dancers of India, and at
the Jardin Mabille.'

Sutherland, who had with difficulty kept his temper
during this little scene, now turned his dusky eyes full on
Lagardere.

' What do you mean by these sort of women ? '

Lagardere shrugged his shoulders.

' What I meant was simply this, sir. Just as we
recognise in certain faces the Jewish physiognomy ; just
as we see in certain religious orders the ascetic or sepa-
ratist experience ; just as in another way we distinguish
the blood of the racehorse, or the breed of the greyhound,
so we recognise in a certain type of women the type of the
hetairai. The type is so uniform on the stage that if we
take up a whole album of theatrical beauties, we shall
find the features of a familj', the characteristics of twin
sisters.'

' Am I to understand,' said Sutherland, still retaining
his self-possession, ' that in Miss Vere you recognise the
type of woman without virtue ? '

' Certainly,' drawled Lagardere. ' Observe, I am
making no personal accusation. If the lady is a friend
of yours '

Sutherland rose to his feet.

' And if she is, Mr. Lagardfere, since that is your
name' '

'Why, then, I envy your luck, that's all,' returned
Lagardfere, with an ugly smile ; and there was a general
laugh.

Sutherland's hands came down, and they were clenched
as if for a blow ; but Crieff placed a warning hand upon
his arm, and drew him away.

MAHTYBDOM OF MADELINE. 119

' Don't excite yourself,' he said. ' It's only Lagardere.'

' The man is insufferable.'

' Everybody knows that.'

' He deserves to be horsewhipped.'

' Bless you, he has been horsewhipped over and over
again ; I think he rather likes it, and whenever it occurs
he publishes a full account in his own journal. Come,
you're no match for him, with his poisoned shafts. He'd
find out the weak point in your armour at once. Come to
the smoking-room, and have a cigar.'

As they crossed the room together, they heard the
voice of Lagardere beginning again, with its usual drawl-
ing monotony —

'I say, Day, who's the fire-eater with Crieff? He
reminds me of a man who once threatened to thrash me at
St. Petersburg. It began at a card-party, where four of us
were playing — the Grand Duke Nicolas, Prince Necro-
lowski, old Gortschenkoff, and myself '

They heard no more. Sutherland strode on to the
smoking-room, which was almost empty, and threw him-'
self into a seat. His face was convulsed, and his frame
shook with agitation.

' My dear Sutherland, you're exciting yourself for
nothing. What is Miss Vere to you ? '

' She is this much,' said Sutherland, ' that if I thought
it would serve her I would kill that man like a dog.'

' Kill Lagardere ! Eidiculous! Why, he's excellent fun.'

' Crieff, don't talk like that — it's not worthy of you.
You know that man is a villain.'

' Upon my word, I don't think so.'

' What ! '

' He only talks as most men do when actresses are in
question, and I assure you he is a man of experience.'

' Experience ! ' echoed Sutherland bitterly. ' Yes, he,
has rolled in the shambles like the rest of us; he has
polluted his body and his soul, and because he knows
pollution, he dares to speak of one who is perhaps a
md^tyr, and is, to him, an angel to a devil. Well, you are
right, he only talks like the rest Crieff, when I think of
what that man is, of what most of us are, I hate my life,
I wish I had never been bpro,'

120 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

' If you go on like this, old fellow, I shall think you
are in love.'

' "With my own ideal, yes. With that woman, though
she almost realises it, no.'

' I'm glad to hear it,' said Crieff, earnestly. ' You're
too good stuff to be wasted on an actress.'

' There again. You, too, sneer at one whose soul you
cannot comprehend. Crieff, neither you nor I am worthy
to tie that woman's shoestrings. Grant that her life has
been evil — I'll not believe it, but assume it for the
moment— what she has been society has made her. If she
has fallen, it has been through the lusts of our accursed
sex ; and even now, her divine face, in its almost super-
natural sorrow and sweetness, rebukes our lusts and puts
our wicked experiences to shame. Oh, we men, we men !
We who talk of purity, and seek it in our mothers and our
wives ! What are we 1 What are our lives ? Sinks of
foul passion, privileged by society and protected by the
spirit of the law. I tell you, until a man's life is as pure
as he would have the life of the woman he loves, he has
no right to throw one stone at the most fallen woman in
the world.'

There was silence for the space of some minutes. The
two men smoked their cigars — Sutherland looking at
vacancy, Crieff watching his face. The latter broke
silence first.

' There's more in this than you've yet told me. Are
you sure you have seen Miss Vere to-night for the first
time 1 '

' I am not sure.'

' You know her ? '
. ' No, but she is the ghost of a woman I once saw.'

Another pause, then Crieff spoke again.

'I tell you what, the best thing you can do is to make
her acquaintance. Shall I ask Abrahams to introduce
you?'

To his fi:iend's surprise, Sutherland turned upon him a
look of the uttermost CQUster)iatiqn, and then said in 9
Ipw voice —

'Not yet,'

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 121

CHAPTER XX.

A painter's model.

While the public were busy discussing the merits and
demerits of the star which had shone forth so suddenly
■upon the theatrical horizon, the lady herself was sitting
in her dressing-room, apparently indifferent to all that
passed or was likely to come. Her theatrical splendour
had been cast off, and, enveloped now in a plain dark
dress, she sat with dishevelled hair and pale cheeks,
gazing dreamily at her own reflection in a mirror. Her
maid, who was busily engaged in folding a delicate" robe,
was suddenly interrupted in her work by a knock at
the door.

She opened it and admitted White. Pie walked over
to the dreamy girl, put his arm round her shoulders, and
kissed her fondly.

' Well, here I am,' he said quickly, jvith a glance at
the busy, listening maid. ' Are you almost ready to come
tome ? '

' I am quite ready,' returned Madeline, awakening
from her dream.

She rose at once, coiled up her hair, put on her hat
and cloak, and, after giving a few directions to her maid,
took White's arm and left the room.

The house had been emptied and darkened, and the
curtain raised, but confusion still prevailed upon the
stage. Carpenters, scene- shifters, property men, actors
and actresses, bereft of their splendour, all gathered
according to their different grades around Abrahams, Hart,
and the acting manager, who were holding forth like the
outer world upon the merits of the heroine of the night.

Madeline, plainly dressed, thickly veiled, and clinging
closely to White's arm, hoped to pass unseen through the
crowd ; but no sooner had she reached the centre of the
sta^e than the keen eye of the manager fell upon her, and
he advanced with outstretched hands.

' My dear Miss Vere,' he said, ' allow me to con-
gratulate you on a big success. Ypu've hit 'em right

122 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

between the eyes, my dear. You have, by Jove! I
always said you would. Didn't I always say you would ? '
And turning to White, he added —

'White, old man, dine with me to-morrow at five
sharp. I've a lot to talk over.'

Madeline received the homage quietly enough, and by a
Blight pressure of her hand upon the arm of her delighted
guardian hurried him along out through the stage door.

It was a calm still night, the sky was studded with
stars ; not a breath of air was stirring, but the noise in
the streets was deafening, the confusion bewildering. A
crowd was gathered round the theatre door, cabs rattled
up and down, streams of people moved hither and thither,
as if in a feverish dream. Once in the open air. White
paused to hail a cab, but Madeline stopped him.

' Let us walk,' she said quickly. ' I am so excited,
and a breath of this cool air will do me good.'

' As you please, my dear,' returned White, and, clasping
her hand more firmly upon his arm, he led her through
the ever-moving crowd. What a crowd it was ! Men and
women, old and young, rich and poor, mingling together
in one perpetual eddy; shivering, starving, half-clad
children ; brazen street-walkers disporting in finery even
more tawdry than that which the actress had cast aside,
and pale-faced outcasts glaring ghastly beneath the gas-
light, clutching at their rags, and forcing their parched
heated lips to offer up a curse to Him who had made them
what they were.

Still veiled, still clinging closely to White's arms,
Madeline passed slowly on, watching the crowd surging up
arid down beside her, seeing the faces pale, haggard, gaunt,
and famine-stricken, flashing like phantoms. Now and
then, as some weary woman passed beneath the glare of
the gaslight, Madeline would pause and instinctively
stretch forth her hand, as if to offer succour ; but White,
tightening his hold upon her, soothed the strange
agitation which he knew to be rising, and firmly urged
her on. Thus they left the trouble and the turmoil
behind them, and passing into a sequestered square, with
green trees around them, and the starlit beavea abovej
paused for a moment.

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 123

Madeline raised her veil, and looked upward.

' To think,' she said, * that such a bright sky should
shine upon so much wickedness and sorrow 1 I wonder if
any people are ever happy until they die ? '

' Happy ! Of course they are. But c^me, we are
lingering too long. I mean to drink a bottle of cham-
pagne to-night to celebrate your success, my dear.'

Madeline said no more, but quietly suffered him to
lead her home.

It was certainly not such a home as one would picture
as the abode of the queen of the night ; for White, whose
circumstances had never been affluent, had been brought
lower than ever of late through the demands made upon
him by Madeline, whom it had been necessary to fit out
superbly*before she could be presented to the gaze of the
world. Still, poor as they were, the rooms were dear to
Madeline, and as she entered them she felt stealing over
her a sense of security and peace which she had not
experienced all that evening before.

The good news had sped quickly, and the welcome
given to the young actress was ia keeping with all the
rest. The table was spread for supper, the solitary bottle
of champagne stood at the head, and poor Madame de
Berny, now very worn and much aged, stood upon the
narrow, dimly lighted stairs, with outstretched hands and
quivering voice.

' Ah, my dear,' she said, as she drew Madeline into the
bedroom, and assisted her to remove her hat and cloak, ' to
think that only a few years ago you stood at my poor dear
Marie's knee, and listened, with open eyes and mouth, to
the stories she used to tell about the theatre. Now, you
are a leading la'ly, and she — oh ! my poor girl ! '

'Don't cry, Madame,' said Madeline gently, 'I think
Marie is happy.'

'Ah, Miss Madeline, how can I help grieving when I
think of all my child has lost ? To think that when she
was rising so rapidly she could throw herself away upon
a man who only betrayed her ; that she should cause
her father to die of a broken heart, and bring me to this ! '

As Madeline listened she sank into a chair, and let her
■weary head rest upon her hands. Her face was paler than

124 MAltTTRDOM OF MADELINE,

it had been before, and Madame de Bemy looking at her
saw that a look of terrible sadness, which she had often
noticed before, was creeping again into her eyes.

' Madeline, my dear,' she said, ' you at least ought to bo
happy.'

The girl raised her head and smiled, and the smile was
even more pitiful to behold than the look of sadness had
been.

' Yes, you are right, Madame de Bemy,' she said, ' I
ought to be happy, so I will try to be from this night
forth ; ' and as if to avoid further conversation she passed
out into the sitting-room, where she found White awaiting
her with a look of contented happiness in his face.

Puzzled and thoughtful, the old lady saw her go.
What was the matter with the girl ? She couli not tell.
Some few months before that day, when, in answer to an
appeal from her. White had offered her a home with him-
self and ward, she had come full of her own troubles,
especting to find a bright-eyed vivacious beautiful girl to
soothe and cheer her. But instead of being the comforted she
became the comforter. The first sight of the girl rent her
heartstrings. Could this be Madeline Hazelmere ? Could
this be the lissome blue-eyed child, who had been the
very impersonation of happy impulse and joy ? This
woman with the pale cheeks and strange, sad eyes?
Madame de Bemy paused before her shattered vision,
gave one prolonged look, and burst into tears.

' Do not cry, dear Madame,' Madeline had said, kindly
taking her old friend affectionately in her arms ; ' the poor
chevalier has gone from a world in which it is more terrible
to live than to leave. I hope he has no memory of it —
that at least he is at peace.'

Strange words, to come from a girl scarcely twenty
years of age. They affected the Frenchwoman curiously
at the time, and set her pondering afterwards.

The longer she remained with White the more she
became impressed with the painful change that had taken,
place in Madeline. It was not that the child had become
a woman, and had learnt to subdue her spirits to a sadder,
more womanly tone ; her soul was haunted by a memory
,>vhich poisoned every pleasure yrhich w^s lifted to her lips,

Martyrdom of mabelinM. 125

atid converted the world into a tomb. What the memory
■was, Madame could not understand, but she knew, when-
ever the girl's prospects seemed brightest, it haunted her
the most, and that on that night when she had shone forth
upon the world, and made hundreds envy her, it seemed
to loom before her eyes more terribly than ever.

For several days alter that night when she had achieved
her great theatrical triumph, Madeline was too much
occupied with business to give much thought to herself.
She seemed to be lifted on a whirlwind, and carried along
in tumult — forgetting the past, thinking nothing of the
future, and scarcely conscious even of the bewildering
present.

On the third morning, however, a note arrived which
dispelled the dream that enveloped her, and brought her
to herself again. The note had been placed among many
others upon the breakfast table. She looked twice or
thrice at the handwriting, then opened the envelope, and
read as follows —

My dear Ophelia, — ^For the last few days I have been looking
eyery hour, nay, erery minute, for a visit from you. .Am I to he
again_ honoured by a visit from you in my studio, or may I take
the liberty of waiting upon you ? I hare been putting one or two
finishing touches to my work, but without the presence of the original
I cannot bring it to completion.

Accept my friendly homage, which must be to you like a drop of
water to the ocean.

Blanco Seeena.

Having perused the note, Madeline laid it down again
upon the table and looked round the room. How poverty-
stricken it looked; how opposed to everything in the
house of the successful painter who wrote that letter ! She
turned to White, who sat near her with his head buried in
the folds ofthe' Times.'

' Mr. Serena thinks that success has turned my head,'
she said quietly. ' I must undeceive him by giving him
■my last sitting for " Ophelia " to-day.'

Accordingly, as soon as the breakfast was over, White
retired to his studio, and Madeline went on her way.

On arriving at the house of Mr. Blanco Serena, she
was made to feel her new greatness more than ever she

126 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

had done before. The servant in livery looked at her
with unusual respect, as he led her solemnly through long
corridors to the studio, and ushered her into the presence
of the great man himself.

Mr. Blanco Serena sat among his pictures. He wore
an Eastern dressing-gown, and smoked a fantastically
twisted meerschaum pipe. His eyes were fixed with rapt
attention on the walls where his own liandiwork was dis-
played ; but when Madeline came in, he withdrew his
gaze, collected his thoughts, and gave her a kindly
welcome. To all his congratulations Madeline listened
quietly, then sh#took her place before the painter, and, as
he painted, her thoughts wandered to the past.

'Ah, those eyes, those eyes,' thought Serena to him-
self as he painted rapidly. ' I cannot put them on canvas.
The critics will rave about my " Ophelia," but their praise
will never satisfy me. If I could only paint the expression
of that face I should think myself the genius they call me,
not the poor impostor I know myself to be.'

Nevertheless, he tried and tried again, while Madeline
sat patiently. Presently the studio door was opened, and
with much ceremony, but no announcement, a stranger
was shown in.

CHAPTER XXT.

A WALK ACEOSS HTDE PARK.

The new-comer was a tall, robust-looking, man in the
prime of life, who was dressed with the utmost neatness
and exactness, in the plain frock coat and grey- coloured
trousers so much in favour among so-called business men.
Despite the ceremony with which he was introduced, and
which showed that he was an individual of no small
importance, his manner was modest and retiring in the
extreme, and he looked around him on the splendid temple
of modem painting, and at its famous owner, with smiling
and good-humoured homage.

Serena put down his brush at once, and warmly shook
hands. Then, seeing Madeline, the new-comer made a
movement as if to retire.

MAUTYRDUM OF MADELINE. 127

' I am afraid I interrupt you,' he exclaimed.

But before he could say more, Madeline came forward
gently, and offered her hand.

' Miss Hazelmere ! ' he exclaimed, recognising her; 'or
shall I rather call you by the name you've already made
BO famous ? '

' You know each other 7 ' interrupted Serena, with
some surprise.

' Oh yes,' cried Madeline, smiling. ' Mr. Forster and
I are old, old friends.'

At this statement even the new-comer himself evinced
some surprise ; but Madeline continued — •

' When I was only a veiy little girl, Mr. Forster, I
remember how you came to see my guardian one day when
he was sick, and how, when you went away, he cried and
told me how good you were. You came often after that,
and we used to talk of you together. And the other night
at the theatre, when I saw your face in the box, I felt so
glad, and I said to myself^ " I won't be afraid now, for
there are at least two kind faces in front — one my dear
guardian's, the other the face of the best friend he ever had
in the world." '

Under this simple praise Forster looked a little un-
comfortable. .

' How is White ? ' he inquired nervously, as if for
want of something better to say.

Madeline did not immediately reply, so jSerena
answered for her.

* At the present moment, my dear Forster, our friend
White is the happiest fellow in all the world, or shall I
rather say, in all Bohemia. A hundred successful original
plays, a thousand successful adaptations, could not have
given him half the pleasure that he feels at the triumph of
his charming ward. And well may he be proud. He
has hatched at his lonely hearth a phoenix,' who rises out
of the ashes of our drama, to glorify the sfage.'

' Ah, but you spoil me,' said Madeline, well pleased,
nevertheless. ' It is so easy to act ; and, besides, who but
my dear guardian has taught me the little I know ? '

' For you it is easy,' returned Serena, gallantly ; • ah
yes — and jt is easy for a flower to look beautiful or for a

12S MAUTYtlDOM OF MADELINE.

iark to sing a splendid song. That is aU the difference
between genius and talent. All you have to do is to be
natural, to be your charming self, and the art comes of
itself, like the perfume from a rose.'

Madeline looked at Forster and laughed.

' Mr. Serena would not say that,' she said, ' if he knew
what a goose I was when I first began. It was in that
little theatre at Eyde, in the Isle of Wight, and when I
went on the people could not hear a word, and I did not
know what to do with my hands and feet. The manager
said I was the greatest idiot who ever stept upon his stage,
and he was right.'

Serena was not to be dismayed.

'Another proof of genius,' he cried. 'Mere talent
would have caught all the tricks of the stage, and by
means of its affectations and insincerities gained cheap
applause at the outset. I have often heard my friend
Eugene Aram say that when he began he was so great a
stick that no manager would keep him in his theatre.
The people laughed at his legs, mimicked his voice.
Critics compared him to the Knight of the Rueful Visage.
He was invertebrate, inchoate, inarticulate. Look at him
now. The people adore his legs and consider his voice
music itself. That's genius, my dear, depend upon it.'

' One touch of genius makes amends for much,' ob-
served Forster <juietly. ' I don't think Aram is a good
actor even now, but he is interesting and intelligent, and
his eccentricities have a fascination.' He added, turning
to the picture in the easel, ' May I ask, is that picture a
commission ? '

Serena shook his head.

' If I could afford it,' he answered, ' I should say
" Yes," and make a present of it — to the original. But
it's not worthy of her ; upon my word it's not worthy.
I'm ashamed of my art when, I compare my miserable
attempt to the reality.'

' It is very like,', said Forster thoughtfully, studying
before the canvas ; ' but too sorrowful ; too sorrowful 1 I
should not like to see Miss Hazelmere look like that.'

' You see, it's an " Ophelia," ' observed Serena apolo-
getically.

MARTYRVOM 01' MADELlNK 129

' I would rather you had painted her as smiling and
happy. So young a face should not reveal such depths of
suffering. There is no hope here, and in Miss Hazelmere's
face all should be hope and happiness.'

Turning to glance at Madeline, he was startled and
surprised. She was gazing now at the picture with the
very expression depicted in it ; all life, all pleasure seemed
to have faded out of her face, leaving nothing but blank-
ness there, and the shadow of a painful dream. lier
thoughts seemed to have wandered far away, and have left
her unconscious of the presence in which she stood.

But while he gazed the look faded, and' the light came
back to her eyes. Meeting his gaze she smiled, and held
out her hand.

' I must go now,' she said ; ' my sitting is over, and I
am already past my time.'

' Do you ride or walk ? ' asked Forster.

' I am going to walk across the park, and then, at the
Marble Arch, I shall take a cab.'

' May I offer myself as an escort ? ' he said, after a
moment's hesitation. ' I am going that way, and —
and '

He paused, smiling benignly and blushing boyishly, but
Madeline at once put her hand upon his arm and accepted
his escort with a happy smile. Serena saw them to the door,
and watched them as they walked chatting up the street.

' I think I know the signs,' muttered the painter to
himself, 'and if Forster is not fascinated, Eros Athanatos
is no true god. Well, so be it. It will be none the worse
for my pictures, and a splendid thing for the girl.'

Left alone with Madeline, Forster felt constrained and
a little uneasy, but her perfect simplicity and frankness
soon put him entirely at his ease. She was indeed happy
beyond measure in his accidental companionship. Since
her early childhood his name had been familiar to her as
that of one whom White emphatically pronounced to be
* the best man he had ever known or hoped to know,' and
his perfect gentleness and kindliness, which impressed even
the most casual observer of his countenance, won the
open-hearted girl at once. Leaning lightly on his arm,
she chatted away frankly and fearlessly, as she might have

K

130 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

done to White himself. Frank without boldness, fearless
without forwardness, in every word and gesture free and
spirituelle without affectation, she fairly won her way to
his heart of hearts. Talking v/ith her was like talking
with a child ; she was so unconscious of herself, so un
reserved ; and this, seeing her wonderful physical beauty,
constituted at once her peril and her charm.

Passing in at Albert Gate, they crossed Eotten Eow,
and strolled quietly across the park. It was a bright
golden day, and Madeline, always the creature of physical
and external impressions, seemed to kindle into new glad-
ness. She looked at the fair horsewomen, of whom there
was a fair sprinkling already, though it was early in the
afternoon, and laughed for pleasure.

' Do you like riding ? ' she asked. ' I have never
ridden ; but I think if I were on a horse's back, I could
ride — and ride — and ride — and never stop.'

' You would find it duller than you think,' said Forster.
' I ride here often, and do not think it very amusing.'

To his astonishment Madeline asked, quietly —

' Does Mrs. Forster ride ? '

'Mrs. Forster ? ' he repeated.

' I mean your wife.'

' My wife,' he echoed, in still greater astonishment. 'I
am not married ! '

' How strange ! ' exclaimed Madeline, with raised eye-
brows. ' Not married ? '

' Why is it so strange 1 ' asked Forster, with a laugh.

' You do not look like an old bachelor — no, I don't
mean that ; but there is something in your manner which
makes one think of a kind wife, and little children, and
home. You are not old, and yet I feel as if I could speak
to you so freely, and could tell you anything, as I do my
dear guardian. Do you understand ? '

' I think I do — partly,' answered Forster, not without
a certain uneasiness.

' And that lady whom I saw you with at the theatre
on the first night of " Cymbeline " — I thought she was
Mrs. Forster.'

' That was my sister.'

They walked on for a little in silence. Forster was
the first to speak.

MARTYBDOM OF MADELINE. 181

' It is curious, after all, that you should class me among
the married people, for the fact is, I am a widower. My
poor wife died many years ago, and left me one child, a
boy. My sister keeps my house ; but when you talk of
home, and home ties, I cannot help telling you that I am
a very lonely man — quite an old bachelor, indeed, in my
way. When, after a long day in the City, I return to my
house, and get among my books and pictures, I am still
lonely, but sometimes very happy after all.'

A girl less naive and unsuspicious than Madeline
might have been astonished at this fragment of auto-
biography, coming from such a man, and might have
questioned her own fascinations as to the origin of such
candour. But Madeline thought it quite natural, as be-
tween friend and friend.

' But let us speak of other things,' continued Forster,
after a pause, ' of yourself. I sometimes think, if you
will forgive me for saying so, that you must be rather
lonely too.'

' No,' she replied readily ; adding ■v^th her brightest
smile, ' not while I have Mr. White.'

' Ah, he is a good fellow — but you have neither father
nor mother.'

Madeline shook her head.

' They died long ago. I do not remember them.'

' Your other relations ? '

' I have none.'

'None?'

' When my father died I was left with poor people,
who brought me up. Then trouble came, and Uncle
Mark died, and I was brought to Mr. White. Uncle Luke
brought me. After he went away he used to write me,
but at last all letters ceased. Mr. White made inquiries,
but he had "disappeared, and no one knew where he had
gone. Dear Uncle Luke ! '

Her voice was broken, and her eyes were full of tears.

' What made you think of going upon the stage ? '

' I used to go to the theatre with Mademoiselle de

Berny, and she used to make me hear her go through her

parts. I always loved acting, Mr. Forster, and at Mr.

White's there were so many professional people. Afcer-

k2

132 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

wards, wlien I was older, I tried to think Low I could
repay my dear guardian for all his kindness, and then I
thought if I could act — only a little — it would be some
help. "When he first heard me recite he was pleased, and
I told him I would like to become an actress and act in
his plays. So he sent me down into the country to try.
That was how it began.'

' And you like acting ? '

' Better than anything in the world ; best of all, Mr.
Forster, because it makes my dear guardian happy.'

' You will make a great name.'

' I don't care for that — yes, I do care ; for a great
name would mean a great deal of money, and I want that.^

'Indeed! Why?'

' Because Mr. White is poor, and I want to make him
rich — as rich as he deserves to be, for all his goodness to
me. I love him so much. I should like to put him in a
palace and surround him with splendour, like a king in a
lairy tale.'

Forster" laughed merrily.

' I don't think White would care for a palace, and he's
too Bohemian for a king.'

' What do you mean by Bohemian ? ' asked Madeiine,
vith her characteristic frankness. ' I often hear the word,
aad I don't understand it.'

' I'm not sure that I do either,' he answered at once,
' unless it means unconventlonality, carelessness of appear-
ances, contempt for Mrs. Grundy. In White's case, though,
it means far more — honesty, lightness of heart, patience
imder disappointment, all combined in one of the best
fellows in the world.'

' If you knew all about him, Mr. Forster, you would
s.ay even more than that. If you knew — if you knew— 7
but no one will ever know but God ! Oh, I should die if
he even thought me ungrateful — he is so good. I have no
other friend in all the world ! '

' Do not cry ; you have one other.'

'No.'

' While I live, I hope you will not doubt it'

She paused, and, looking at him through her tears,
held out both her hands.

MAIITTRDOM' OF MADELINE. 133

' It is so kind of you to say so,' she cried. ' Yes, you
are good also ; but no one in the world can be to me what
Mr. White has been.'

' It is right that you should be grateful,' said Forster,
gently, ' and I think more highly of you for that holy
feeling. But here we are at the Marble Arch. Must I
call a cab ? '

' If you please, unless you will drive home with me,
and see Mr. White. I know he is at home, for he is very
busy on his new play.'

The ofEer was accepted as frankly as it was made, and
Forster's face shone with pleasure.

' Shall it be a hansom or a four-wheeler 7 ' he said,
Bmiling.

' A hansom, please ; I cannot bear these slow old
things, and I love hansoms. I used to think when I was
a little girl that I would like to have one all to myself,
and drive about in it for ever.'

A hansom was called, and the pair entered it ; they
drove swiftly away to St. John's Wood. Very little more
was said on either side, but Forster felt very happy.

They turned into the old familiar street, and, reined
up before the old familiar ' studio,' which Madeline knew
and loved so well. They found the dramatist en de-
shabille and very busy, not on the new play, as Madeline
had stated, but on a pictijre — which, on their entry, he
hastily covered up.

'My dear Forster,' he exclaimed, with real delight.
' How glad I am I But, upon my life, you puzzle me.
How does it happen that '

He paused and looked questioningly at Madeline, who
laughed and explained.

' I met Mr. Forster when I was sitting for my portrait,
and he brought me home.'

' Very good of him.'

' Was it not ? But what are you doing ? Painting
something ! You told me the other day that you did not
intend to paint any more.'

' It's nothing,' returned the dramatist, ' nothing at all.
Only a kind of sketch — a little thing of memory. No,
oo,' he added, as Madeline approached the canvas, ' you

134 MABTTBDOM OF MADELINE.

mustn't look at it. It's a secret. It's — ^it'sa — portrait — of
— 3, — young — lady — I — admire.'

Quietly laughing, he endeavoured to prevent Madeline
from inspecting the picture, but she was too quick for
him, and had already uncovered the easel.

' Why, it's me ! ' she cried, and continued merrily,
with a theatrical gesture, ' I mean "it is I" I — which is
the same thing, and more grammatical.'

' Grammar was never your strong point, my dear,'
observed White, gently. ' Well, what do you think of
it?'

It was Madeline indeed, but Jladeline the child, as she
first appeared, with wild, wistful eyes, in that lonely
studio. The colours were crude, the drawing incorrect,
but for all that the expression was there, and the whole
thing was instinct with life.

With smiling face and clasped hands, Madeline stood
gazing at the likeness ; then, as if moved by a sudden
impulse, she threw her arms round White's neck and
kissed him, first on one cheek then on the other, while
Forster looked on in amused sympathy.

' You like it, my dear ? It was — ahem ! — a sort of a
kind of an inspiration. It came upon me when I was looking
at the play, and, by Jove, I had to do it.'

' It is really capital,' said Fbrster. ' I should have
recognised the likeness anywhere.'

' Of course, it's only a daub,' returned White, humbly.
' I might have painted decently if I had stuck to it, instead
of dangling after Jew manager's and doing potboilers for
Eugene Aram. But you're fresh from seeing Serena's
picture, and that gives my thing no chance.'

' I don't care for Mr. Serena's picture,' cried Madeline.
' I do not like to tell him so, but I am sure I am not so
lovely as he mates me, and I know my eyes are not green.
I like your picture ever so much the best — and, oh ! it
was so kind of you to do it, Mr. White. It is just like
me as I was — a nasty, little, pale thing, with shock
hair 1 '

And she stood contemplating the likeness in an ecstasy
of honest reminiscence.

* My dear, you were never nasty,' said White, good

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 135

hnmouredly. ' Shock haired, if you like, but charming as
you are now.'

' Always charming, I'm sure,' suggested Forster, mildly
' Do you know, I should like to buy this picture ? '

White opened his eyes.

' Take it, my dear fellow, it's of no peciraiary value.
Stop, though ! I can make a composition of it by putting
in some flowers and a bit of background, and calling it
" Primroses — a Study," or something of that sort.'

' You'll allow me to fix the price 1 ' said Forster.

But there Madeline interfered.

' No, Mr. White, you must not sell ' it ; that is, you
will sell it to no one but the original. How much must I
give you for it ? A thousand guineas ? Two thousand ?
Tell me, and I'll begin to save at once.'

She paused with sparkling eyes, looking into her
guardian's face.

' Miss Hazelmere is right,' said Forster ; ' she must
keep .the sketch as a souvenir of her childhood. No other
person in the world has a right to possess it.'

No more was said on the subject, and White soon led
the way into the adjoining house, there to dispense the
hospitalities to his friend, who, however, soon took his
leave, and departed by omnibus towards his home in South
Kensington.

The night afterwards, however, Madeline saw his
hearty face looking from a box in the theatre, and between
the acts he came round to speak to her. He said little,
but what he did say set her wits working, and the next
morning she told White, as they sat at breakfast, that Mr.
Forster had witnessed the performance on the previous
evening.

' Oh, indeed,' said the dramatist with a pleased smile.
' Did he come round 7 '

' Yes, for a few minutes.'

' It's rather odd, and I think you may take it as a
compliment. Forster doesn't care for the drama as a
rule.'

' Indeed ! '

'Fact, my dear. Why, though we're such capital
friends, he has seldom come even to see my plays,'

136 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

' Do you know tis sister ? '

' Who told you lie had a sister ? ' asked White, slyly.

'He did.'

' Indeed. Well, the fact is, I don't know her. She's
a sort of amiable Ogre ; pious, you know, and all that
sort of thing. Whenever I have dined at the house, she
has been invisible ; but we've generally met at his club.'

'And his little boy 7'

' Eh 1 Who told you he had a little boy ? The same
informant. Why, he's been giving you his autobio-
graphy 1 '

' He only told me he was a widower.'

* And that's more than he ever told to me, though of
course I was aware of it. You see, our friendship has
been a sort of club friendship, and, besides, all the favour
has been on his side. A rich man like Forster and a poor
devil like myself can't meet on equal terms.'

' He is rich, then ? '

'Very. One of the oldest firms in the city. His
house in Cromwell Road is like a palace, and the pictures
in it alone would realise a fortune.'

Madeline looked thoughtful, then she said —

' I'm sorry he's so rich.'

' God bless me 1 why ? '

' I don't like rich people, and — and he's so nice ! '

' If you were a poor poet, or a struggling painter, or a
musician with a craze, you wouldn't blame the dear fellow
for his good fortune. He's so generous, so good-hearted —
not only to me, but to every fellow-creature who needs
his help. Then look how modest and unaffected he is.
His own flunkeys are lords to him, and when he asks for
a cup in his own house he's like a humble City clerk
asking deferentially for refreshment in a large hotel.'

Having thus begun. White did not pause till he had
sounded the praises of his patron over and over again ;
told of his goodness and generosity to himself personally ;
of his countless good deeds to others, who would other-
wise have sunk long ago in the dark waters of Bohemia.
The theme brought honest tears, as White concluded
that ' if ever there was an angel in a frock-coat and grey
trousers, it was James JTorster,'

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 137

Unsuspicious as Madeline herself, "White at first saw-
nothing remarkable in the close interest with which
Forster followed the fortunes of his ward. Nor, when
some days afterwards the merchant again put in an ap-
pearance, bringing with him a bouquet of choice flowers,
did the simple soul awake to much suspicion of the truth.

One afternoon, however, as White sat at work on the
scenario of a new play, which he was about to submit to
the distinguished Mr. Aram, Madeline entered in great
agitation.

' Are you busy ? May I speak to you ? ' she ex-
claimed.

' Certainly, my dear ; my time is yours. But what's
the matter ? '

' Something terrible has happened.'

' Indeed ! '

The dramatist pushed his papers aside, and arose
trembling to his feet.

' Mr. Forster '

There she paused.

'Not ill, I hope?'

' Oh, no, no. But I have just left him. lie was at
Mr. Serena'5, and he came part of the way home.'

' Yes. Pray go on.'

' Oh, I was afraid of it ! ' cried Madeline, with a sob.
* I should have avoided him ! — and yet, at first, I could
not believe it possible.'

' Do explain 1 ' cried White, in hopeless perplexity.

Madeline sank into a chair, crying, and hid her face
in her hands.

' He has asked nle to become his wife.'

CHAPTER XXII,

BLANCO SERENA.

Mk, Blanco Serena, the prophet of a new school of paint-
ing, the object of which was more closely to reconcile and
blend the kindred arts of .painting, poetry, and music,
occupied a large detached bouse in South Kensington,

138 MAUTIUDOM OF MADELINE.

■wliither his worshippers flocked every Sunday, as to the
ehrine of iome patron saint. The walls were embellished
with designs from his own pencil, or those of his own
friends ; the furniture was his own invention, in form as
well as colour ; the ceilings were cerulean, like the heavens,
and like the heavens were studded with golden stars ; so
that when the rapt creature looked up in contemplation or
in inspiration, his vision was rewarded by celestial glimpses.
There were no carpets on the floors, but here and there
costly rugs were strewn. The house formed a quadrangle,
in the centre of which was an open court with a playing
fountain, and by the fountain, in fine weather, the prophet
and the faithliil would lie upon tiger and lion skins,
smoking pipes and calumets of strange device.

Serena himself was a middle-aged man, with a high,
bald forehead, long apostolic beard, and large brow^i
dreamy eyes. He was a good soul, with the kindest dis-
position, and the affectations of his profession did not
extend to his personal character. The fault lay more in
his stars than himself that he had become an eccentric
painter. He began merrily, in Bohemian fashion, with a
clay pipe in his mouth, painting real landscapes from
nature and human beings from the life, and producing,
compositions noteworthy for fine colour and honest effect.
But he discovered early, as many another prophet has dis-
covered, that sincerty did not pay. In an angry moment,
one day, disgusted with a picture which he had just com-
pleted, he took up his brush and deliberately reversed all
the colours of his composition. Where water was blue, he
made it vermilion ; where boughs were green and golden, he
made them purple and cerulean ; a white human figure stand-
ing by water became an Ethiop, through excess of shadow ;
and finally, out of sheer devilry, he covered the daffodil
sky with layers of pea-green cloud. He had just com-
pleted his work, and was scowling at it grimlj', when there
entered Ponto, the new art critic from Camford. No
sooner did Ponto see the mutilated picture than he clasped
his hands and raised his eyes rapturously to heaven. ' At
last 1 ' he cried, and wrung Serena by the hand. ' Only
paint like this, and your fame is sure.' The ' Megathe-
rium ' of the following Saturday contained an article by

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 139

Ponto, entitled, ' Mr. Blanco Serena's new painting — a
Eeverie in Vermilion and Pea-green,' in which article it
■was clearly demonstrated, not merely that the painting was
one of the masterpieces of the world, but that the painter
was the first ' modern man ' who had dared ' to give pro-
minence on canvas to evanescent cosmic moods.' From
that day forth the epithets cosmic, august, titanic, super-
sensuous, sublime, and other adjectives of equal meaning
were the especial property of Serena and his imitators ;
for that imitators came soon goes perhaps without saying,
seeing that imitation is so easy. 'Eeveries' on canvas
became the rage ; to be non-natural was the fashion.
Artists who had once in their innocence strained every
nerve to study great models and to copy nature, now
tortured ingenuity to represent ' evanescent cosmic moods '
— out of colour, out of drawing, and out of all harmony
with anything but the diseased invention of bad painters
and the bad critics who urged them on.

Serena, as we have said, was a good fellow, and took
his success sensibly. Only to one man in the world did
he secretly confess the facts of the case. ' I know I am
a humbug,' he said to Forster, ' and that those who praise
me are humbugs. I know that I paint worse than I did
at twenty, and that, when I die, and my school dies with
me, posterity wiU find me out. This is why, now and
then, I follow the true lights of my soul, and paint a true
picture ; just to keep my work from utterly perishing in
Limbo, just to enable some poor soul in the far future to
say, " After all, Blanco Serena might, had he chosen, have
escaped from being the Eesthetic Prig of his period." But
what I am the scribblers and the public have made me.
If another man painted a bony woman in yellow gauze,
with red hair and pale green eyes, and impossible arms
and legs,^ he would be found out directly : but only let
me paint such a figure, and call it " Persephone musing by
the waters of Lethe," or " Memory kneeling by the grave
of ^ope," or " Fading away : a Sonata in Sunset tints,"
and I am sure at least of Ponto's praise and the public
approval. Well, of all humbugs Art humbug is the worst,
though, after all, worse saints have been canonised than
Blanco Serena.'

140 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

To tiie studio of Serena, a few days after Madeline's
visit, came Ponto, the art critic, bringing with him a thin,
middle-aged Frenchman, with a coarse mouth and a sinister
eSfpression of countenance. The painter, with deft and
careless hand, w^as adding a few touches to the picture of
Ophelia.

' Serena,' cried Ponto, ' let me introduce you to BI.
Auguste de Gavrolles, from Paris — the friend and pupil of
the supreme and impeccable Gautier. He is a poet, an
ardent worshipper of your genius, and in all matters of art
completely sane a cosmic'

Serena smiled and held out his hand, which the French,
man took rapturously, and raised it to his lips.

' Ah, Monsieur,' he exclaimed, ' this is the proudest
moment of my life ! '

Ponto threw himself into a chair, and looked around
him with a smile of feline insipidity.

'What's that you have there, my dear Serena?' he
asked, blinking at the picture. 'Ah, I see, another superbly
musical meditation in the minor key of flake white I '

' It is a portrait,' said Serena, quietly.

' An ideal portrait — quite so. How wonderfully in that
floating drapery you have conveyed the serene' insouciance
of trances of languor crescending into aberration of super-
sensual dream ! '

' It is neither more nor less than a careful likeness of
the original,' returned Serena, modestly. ' In the arrange-
ment of the colours I wish to convey '

' The spirituality of a superb and life-consuming dream,
fired with the arid flame of incipient passion — ethereal,
almost epicene — conscious of throbbing vistas of asexual
retrospection and chromatic wastes of fruitless future fan-
tasy, interspersed with forlorn gulfs of irremediable dark-
ness and despair. Added to this, and seen in the pose of
the limp hand and the melancholy texture of the flesh
tints, is the Lethean consciousness of a drowned and de-
vastated ideal, unlightened by one star of promise and
irredeemed by one flower of celestial ruth. Am I right ?
Do I take your meaning ? '

' Just so,' said Serena, dryly, and turned to look at the
Fienchman.

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 141

The latter, with shoulders elevated, and pince-nez in
position, wa3 gazing eagerly at the portrait. He now
turned with a bow to Serena.

' A portrait, did you say, Monsieur ? '

'Yes.'

' May I ask of whom ? '

' Of the new actress. Miss Diana Vere.'

' It is curious,' said GavroUes; 'but pardon, the face
Beenis familiar to me. I ha,ve seen it somewhere before.'

' Indeed 1 Well, such a face, once seen, is not likely
to be forgotten.'

' Is it not beautiful 1 ' cried the Frenchman, with ele-
vated shoulders and extended hands ; ' and seen upon your
canvas, how sublime ! How shall I express to you — to
you, great artist, great genius, what at this moment I feel 7
But tell me. Monsieur, this — is she a friend of yours?
No 7 Yes 7 '

' I know her slightly, that is all.'

' What would I not give to see her, to have the honour
of her acquaintance ! '

' If you wish to see her,' said Serena, ' you have only to
go to the Parthenon Theatre, -where she appears nightly.'

' I will go ; but stay, I return this night to Paris — but
I shall return, and then, perhaps, you will introduce me 7 '

Serena shook his head.

' I'm afraid not,' he answered. ' The lady sees no one,
and is quite a recluse. What^ is still more peculiar is the
fact that she has a particular aversion to gentlemen of your
nation — to France and to Frenchmen without exception.'

' You amaze me, Monsieur 1 Ah, this insular preju-
dice, how bSte ! But perhaps she has reason — perhaps
she has lived in my country.'

' Can't say,' returned Serena, as if tired of the subject ;
and he commenced again to work at the picture.

Ponto looked over his shoulder as he worked with
admiring oyes.

' You must know Gavrolles better,' he observed ; ' I
like him ; we all like him. He is a man of ideas.'

Gavrolles placed his hand upon his heart and bowed.

' I have learned of my master, the immortal Theophile,
to worahip what is beautiful, to adore what is superb.'

X42 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE,

'In Fi'ance, at the present moment,' continued Ponto,
patronisingly, ' GavroUes represents the school of super-
sensuous personal yearning. In his last book of poems,
" Parfums de la Chair," and particularly in that superb
fragment, " Cameo Satanique," he has supplied the con.
necting link between the celestial appetite of Gautier and
the divine nausea of Baudelaire. Till Gavrolles came, the
calendar of imperial passion was incomplete. What Smith,
Jones, and Keats are to our august poetry, that is he to
the poetry of modern France.'

' Ah, Monsieur, forbear ! ' cried the Frenchman. ' You
overwhelm me with shame. Such praise — before the
master ! '

' I will go further,' cried Ponto, recklessly, ' and I will
fearlessly assert, that in the golden roll of the fearless and
fecund Parisian Parnassus, there is no more affluent name
than that of my friend Gavrolles. His " Chant Aromatique "
to the Venus of Dahomey would alone entitle him to a
place in that Pantheon where the names of Victor Hugo
and Achille de Ganville shine effulgent, while his masterly
management of the Sestina, in his great address to myselfj
is only to be compared with the Titanic sculpture cf
Michael Angelo, or the colossal imagery of Potts.'

Serena smiled gloomily. He was familiar with that
sort of praise, as addressed to himself, but, with all hia
cynicism, he scarcely approved of its lavish application to
an obscure Frenchman. The fact was, that the whole
speech formed part and parcel of an eulogistic article, in
Ponto's best manner, then in type for the ' Megatherium,'
a widely circulated literary journal in which nepotism and
malignity formed equal parts.

' By the way,' observed Serena, still quietly at work,
' I see that MacAlpine has been falling foul of our friend
Potts in the " North British." '

MacAlpine was a cantankerous critic, hailing from
beyond the Border, and with a Highland disregard of
consequences in the expression of his literary opinions.
Ponto turned livid.

' MacAlpine,' he exclaims, ' bears to the immortal
Potts the relation that a leper does to Paian Apollo. It is
weL knowa that MacAlpine has been guilty of murder,

MARTYRDOM OF MADMLINE. 143

bigamy, rapine, incest, and larceny, hut all these are
nothing compared to his fiendish and futile statement that
Potts is not the most stupendous, wonderful, awe-inspiring,
celestial, and cosmic creature existing on this planet,
MacAlpine, it is notorious, left his grandmother to starve
in the workhouse, and kicked his little brother to death,
but these crimes are venial by the side of his hateful and
hellish assertion that your divine and spirit-compelling
picture of " Psyche watching the Sleep of Eros " is out of
proportion.'

Serena sighed, then smiled,

' Do you know, my dear Ponto, I sometimes think that
a little hostile criticism is refreshing. I really find it so,
■when it comes in my way.'

Ponto shuddered.

' The only true attitude of criticism is that of worship,'
he exclaimed. ' The man who, in contemplating your
consummate masterpiece, could be conscious of any feeling
save of the surging forces of cosmic yearning, flowering
into the form of perfect idealisation, and shining with the
reflected light of coruscating eternities of sterile pain —
such a man, I say, is capable of any social crime, and incap-
able of any sesthetic perception.'

' Pardon me,' returned Serena. ' What you say is
doubtless very flattering, but if criticism is pure worship,
how do you account for your own attacks on the literary
productions of the enemies of the sesthetic school 1 '

' All modern schools but one are execrable,' returned
Ponto, with a grinding of the teeth and a waving of the
hand. ' It is enough for us to pronounce that they are
not — Art ! In approaching them we do not criticise — we
simply obliterate ; we crush, as -we crush a reptile or an
unclean thing. The man who denies absolute perfection
to Pott.<!, or universal mastery to Blanco Serena, at once
proclaims, not merely his incompetence to speak on any
artistic subject whatever, but by inference his moral degra-
dation as a human being. "We wave him from our vision
• — we wipe him out. lie is a loathsome Philistine, an out-
cast, physically and intellectually abominable. Such a
man once said, in my hearing, that " Mademoiselle de
Maupia " was not the purest, wholesomest, most supremely

H4 MARTYRDOM OF MADEZINK

sane and salutary book produced since the Divine Comedy,
and that, on the whole, he preferred Wordsworth to Gautier
as a moral teacher. My whole soul revolted. I .shrank
from that man with a shudder, and I am convinced that
the wretch is ethically lost and intellectually paralytic'

The Frenchman shook his head dolefully, as over some
sad chronicle of human wickedness or sorrow. Serena
laughed and turned with twinkling eyes to the excited
critic.

' Confess between ourselves that " Mademoiselle de
Maupin " is not virile. For my own part, I never read it
without feeling as if I had been slobbered over by a dirty
baby.'

' For God's sake, Serena,' cried Ponto, ' don't talk like
that. I know you don't mean it, but the very expression
is worthy that infernal scoundrel MacAlpine. Not virile ?
Certainly not, and Heaven forbid ! Virility, dear master,
is coarseness, ugliness, rudeness, and hideousness. Is a
rose-leaf virile ? Are sweet shawms, exquisite scents, for-
lorn pulsations, and cadences of sexless and impotent de-
sire, are these virile ? The book of which we speak has
been exquisitely called by a contemporary the Golden
Book of spirit and sense; nay more, "The Holy "Writ of
Beauty ! " In every page of it we feel the swooning con-
sciousness, the stinging and slaying scourge, of fruitless
and rootless passion, and the divine dew of incommunicable
and luminous lust watering the spent fibres of a parched
and palpitating sesthetic dream. We feel more ! We feel
that in realising this swoon of sensuous yet despairing
pain, sharp as tears, bitter as brine, and sinuous as the
serpent, and in falling back like a fountain to the ground
from the heaven of eternally unsatisfied longing and de-
light, we penetrate to the central mystery of life, and see
the white heart of the great rose of being pulsating with
fine melodious throb of self-satiating and non-virile bliss ! '

Serena yawned, for he had heard all this before, and
he was not particularly interested. As for the Frenchman,
he listened and applauded, with many shrugs and smiles,
but there was a lurking expression in his cat-like eye
which showed that he was not altogether blind to the
absurdity of the fatuous Ponto.

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 146

It is not our intention further to place on record the
lucubrations of this typical critic of the period. The
reader is doubtless familiar with the kind of criticism of
which he and such as he are the mouthpieces. It has,
perhaps, one redeeming merit — that of earnestness and
thoroughness — and even its characteristic nepotism should
not blind us to the fact that it reveals the existence of a
real aspiration.

Arm-in-arm, Ponto and Gavrolles presently sallied
forth, leaving Serena to enjoy his quiet meerschaum alone.
As they went, the Frenchman was loud in praise of the
painter, of his mighty genius and unassuming ways.

' But this " Ophelia " wlfom he has painted,' he cried
presently, ' is she so fair as that 7 '

Ponto confessed that he seldom went to the theatre,
and he had not seen the original.

' Ah, I am interested much,' cried the other. ' I must
see her, I must know her, when I return to London.'

They hailed a hansom and got into it together. As they
drove along the crowded streets in eager conversation, a
young man, passing along on foot, glanced at their faces,
started, and gazed eagerly at Gavrolles. The gaze only
occupied a moment, then the vehicle was gone.

The young man was Edgar Sutherland, strolling along
to his club.

' That face ! ' he muttered to himself, standing and
looking after the hansom. ' Where have I seen it before ?
Is it possible 7 Good heavens, now I remember 1 Can it
be indeed the same V

Lost in thought, with set lips and knitted brow, he
walked on to his destination.

CHAPTER XXIIL

AT THE CLDB.

James Foester, of the great City firm of Porster and
Porster, found himself at the early age of thirty-five a rich
ond prosperous man, with plenty of leisure and a simple
taste for imaginative literature and the fine arts. He was

L

146 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

a widower, his wife having died ten years previously in the
first year of their marriage, leaving him an only son ; and
his fine mansion ' in Cromwell Road, South Kensington,
was presided over by his spinster sister Margaret, his elder
by some five years.

The cares of business sat lightly on this good man's
shoulders, and he could at any moment have retired with a
large independence ; but early habits and inclination kept
him to the office, long after his daily presence there was
unnecessary, and he wished to remain there until his son
was old enough to take his place. His office hours, how-
ever, were very short, and when they were over he assidu-
ously cultivated the society of painters and men of letters.
Many a struggling artist had cause to bless his liberality.
The walls of his house were decorated with some of the
finest paintings of the period ; and he loved nothing better
than to add to his collection by discovering genius, and
paying liberally for its works, long before the trumpet of
fame had given those works a price in the market.

Although himself a strict man of business, he loved
Bohemian society and Bohemian ways, always holding
good-humouredly that it was the prerogative of artists and
authors to play pranks denied to plain men like himself.
His admiration for genius was quite simple and boy-like.
In certain departments of literature, particularly in that of
early English poetry, he had an almost special knowledge,
gained in the course of his acquisition of a fine old-fashioned
libfary ; and nothing delighted him more than to commu-
nioate informally to the ' Megatherium ' or to ' Notes and
Queries ' occasional notes and correspondence on the pet
subjects of his study.

He had known White for years, and been his staunchest
helper and benefactor. Poor White, the best and kindliest
fellow in the world, had neither the art of making money
nor the knack of keeping it when it came; so that he was
generally neck deep in difficulties, and would have sunk
often in the quagmire of bankruptcy had no helping hand
been near. As a painter he was not a genius ; yet Forster
bought his pictures, very often commissioning and paying
for them long before they had taken shape on the easel.
So that the gentle Bohemian had been heard more thaa

MARTTBBOM OF MADELINE. 147

once to exclaim that, in the course of his long heavenward
pilgrimage, he had encountered only one guardian angel,
and that angel was James Porster.

The day after the interview described in a recent
chapter, White and Forster sat alone dining at a quiet
table in the Junior Athenseum Club, of which the merchant
was a member.

' I am glad she has told you,' said Forster quietly.
' Yes, I have asked her to become my wife.'

White did not speak for some minutes, and his expres-
sion was very sad and scared.

' I am very sorry,' he murmured at last. ' I can't tell
how sorry I am. I — I don't know what to say, upon my
soul. It is such an honour^such a surprise too — and you,
God knows you are the best man in the world. But it
can't be. You had it from her own lips. She will never
marry.'

White's eyes were full of tears, and he gulped down a
glass of wine, in extreme emotion.

' After all,' he added eagerly, not meeting the other's
eyes, ' she's only a poor girl, and it wouldn't be right for
a man in your position to marry an actress.'

' I never loved a woman before,' returned the merchant,
' and I know I snail never love again. My first marriage
was not altogether a happy one, and I was driven more
than led into it ; but, thank God, I did my duty, and I
have my boy. But I'm a lonely man — ^you don't know
how lonely, and I thought — I thought this might have
been.'

' I wish to God it could, I do with all my soul.'

' I am sure of that.'

' And oh, my dear Forster,' cried White, almost sobbing,
' don't fancy that my dear girl doesn't value you at your
worth. She knows how good you are. She knows what
a friend you have been to us all, but — but '

' But she does not love me. Well, I could hardly dare
to expect it.'

,' It's not that. I swear it's not that. As I'm a living

man I believe she worships the very ground you tread on.

" Dear Guardian," she said to me last night, " I never was

so happy and proud, and yet I never was so sad. Tell

l2

118 MARTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

him how grateful I am, how gladly I would die to serve
him — but as for marriage, you know it can never be." '

' Do you know that ? ' asked Forster, looking keenly at
iis companion.

White's face was pale as death.

' I do know it.'

' She will never marry ? '

' Never.'

'I think I understand,' said Forster, with a sigh of
relief. ' She has made up her mind to devote herself to
her noble profession, and she believes, perhaps wisely, that
a great artist should be free of all domestic ties. But do
you think I am one of those idiots, those miserable money-
bags, who account the profession of an actress a degradar-
tion? She should never leave the stage, unless of her own
wish and will. She should be encouraged, helped as far
as a plain fellow like myself could help her — in all the
aspirations of her art. I should gloty in her success, and
triumph in her triumph — I should indeed.'

White looked at the bright open face of Forster, and
fairly wrung his hands in despair.

' I wish it were possible,' he groaned. ' For her sake,
even more than yours.'

Forster leant over the table, and continued in rapid,
eager tones.

' If she loves another man, tell me, and I shall be satis-
fied. I don't want to know his name, but if he is poor
let me make him rich. More than anything in the world,
even more than my own happiness, I seek her welfare. I
love her, White, and mine is not a selfish love.'

'You are wrong, dear friend. She loves no one else.
Poor child ! She has never known what love is, and she
never will_kn<5w it.'

Something in White's maimer at last awoke the other's
suspicion and wonder. The face of the poor fellow was so
utterly forlorn, his words and gestures so extraordinary,
that Forster began to share his agitation.

' There is some mystery. Cannot I know it ? '

' Impossible. But you are right.'

'Does it concern Madeline herself?'

♦Yes.'

MASTrSDOM OF MABELINM. ^ 140

' Her friends and relations ? '

« No.'

' For God's sake, tell me — that is, if it can be told.'

White fell back in his chair, and let his hands drop
heedlessly by his side.

' It cannot be told. My poor darling ! It is something
in her past life.'

There he paused in despair. But Forster, himself
trembling violently, touched him on the arm.

' Her past life ? What is that to me ? I know nothing
of it, and I seek to know nothing. If there is any page in
her life she wishes me not to read, let her close the book ;
I will never ask her to open it. I love her too absolutely
not to be content with what she is, the sweetest and purest
woman I have ever known.'

' You think her pure ? So she is, God knows.'

' I think she is worthy to be a queen. I think I am
not worthy to tie her shoe-strings. But this does not pre-
vent me loving her ; it only makes my love something like
idolatry. Don't think that it is mere infatuation. I know
my own mind well, and I shall never change.'

More followed in the same strain, but Forster did not
succeed in eliciting any further explanation.

So White remained the very picture of misery, and,
with his eyes full of tears, wrung the merchant's hand
again and again, uttering wild professions of personal at-
tachment.

Some hours later they parted. White, with somewhat
unsteady steps, for he had drunk liberally, made his way
to his favourite club. Forster walked rjpidly to Piccadilly,
and, entering an omnibus, rode in sad reverie to South
Kensington.

A footman in gorgeous livery admitted the plain man
into his princely home; and along a lobby hung with
choice pictures, up a staircase ornamented with some of
the most perfect specimens of modern sculpture, he found
his way to the drawing-room, where his sister Margaret
was sitting in solitary state.

Margaret Forster was fresh and wholesome-looking like
her brother, but her forehead was lower, her lips thinner
and tightef, her whole expression colder, harder, and mora

150 . MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

respectable, and she wore much more gorgeous apparel.
She adored her brother and his child, with the quiet adora-
tion of a frosty and impeccable well-dressed virgin. In
matters of religion she was very High Church, a staunch
follower of the Eev. Father Seraphin, of the Kensington
Oratory, and there was scarcely a day in the year on. which
she did not hear morning and evening mass.

' You are late, James,' she said as he entered. ' I sup-
pose you have dined ? '

'Tes, at .the club. I have just time to dress for the
theatre. Will you come and bring James ? I have a
box.'

' What theatre, James ? '

« The Parthenon,'

* What are they playing ? '

' Shakespeare's " Cymbeline." '

' Why, James, you have geen that performance twice
already to my knowledge,' said Margaret, lifting her eye-
brows. ' Is it so very good ? '

' So much so that I want you to see it again, and — and
I want James to see it. The new actress is charming.
But there is no time to lose, and the carriage will be at the
door in half an hour.'

Margaret rose, smiling, well pleased at the attention of
her brother, and passed upstairs to prepare her little
nephew. Left alone in the drawing-room, Porster paced
up and down in a somewhat gloomy brown study, mutter-
ing again and again to himself, and pausing from time to
time to gaze into one of the great mirrors ; he was not,
however, gazing at his own reflection, though he seemed
to be doing so — he was contemplating a visionary figure
far away.

Later on in the evening, Forster, with his sister and his
Bon, occupied a box in the Parthenon. They arrived late,
and when they entered ' Imogen ' was in the middle of her
first parting with ' Posthumus,' but as she left the stage
she glanced up and met Forster's eyes. Margaret Forster
saw that look, and in a moment her suspicions were
awakened. For the rest of the evening she was busily
engaged, not following the play, but jealously watching
her brother. As she did so, her &ce hardened and hei

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 151

eyes grew cold as steel; for she had discovered his
secret.

The play ended, the curtain descended, and in answer
to the enthusiastic applause of the audience Imogen came
before the curtain. Then Margaret Forster saw the
actress glance up again with a smile of recognition.

They drove home and supped together in the great din-
ing-room. Forster was generally a water-drinker, but on
this occasion he ordered champagne, and pressed his sister
to partake of it with him. The wise virgin, who saw that
something was coming, was not to be persuaded.

Presently Forster dismissed the footman in waiting;
then, looking V> Margaret with a bright but somewhat
nervous smiiii, he asked —

' Well, how did you like her ? '

' Miss Vere ? I think she is rather pretty and acts
intelligently.'

' Intelligently ! She is a genius. Do take some
champagne.'

Margaret shook her head. She saw that her brother
was excited, and determined to keep cool. To try him,
she changed the subject.

' How pretty the Princess looked. I suppose the grey-
headed gentleman with her was her father, the King of
Denmark ?'

' Yes — but Miss Vere ! How beautifully she spoke
those lines at the mouth of the cave I'

' I liked her best in the earlier portions of the play,'
returned Margaret quietly. ' I have a prejudice against
seeing women dressed up in male attire. I suppose she is
a modest woman, but — by the way, James, she seemed to
recognise you ? Do you know her 7 '

' Yes.'

' You cannot have met her in society ? '

' I was introduced to her by her guardian, White, the
dramatic author. We have been acquainted for some time.'

' Indeed ! ' said Margaret, more coldly than ever.
' She drew back her chair, and rose to go.

' I am very tired. I think I will say good-night.'

* Don't go yet,' exclaimed Forster. ' I — I want to talk
to you,' ,

162 MABTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

'Yea?'

' About Miss Vere.' Then he continued, nervously
and hurriedly, ' I have not only a great respect for her,
Margaret, but a stronger feeling. I should have spoken to
you concerning her before, but I had certain reasons for
keeping silence. Now I think you ought to know every-
thing. I have asked her to marry me.'

Margaret Forster gazed at her brother in horror. Her
face went ghastly pale, and she felt as if a sharp knife had
stabbed her to the heart.

' You cannot be serious ! ' she cried.

' Quite serious 1 '

' My dear James, you are joking with me. I will never
believe you capable of such folly.'

* You think it is folly to marry again 7 '

' That is for you to determine, James ; but whenever
you marry, you will at least marry a lady.'

Forster's face darkened. He knew his sister's strong
prepossessions on certain subjects, but he hardly expected
so decided an opposition.

' Listen to me, Margaret,' he said firmly; 'and before
we go further let me beseech you, for my sake, to refrain
from saying anything offensive concerning Miss Vere.
Understand me clearly, I love her — deeply, passionately ;
and with a man at my age, love means the highest sort ojf
respect. She is as far my superior in every gift of nature
as I, perhaps, am hers in worldly position.'

He "paused, but Margaret made no sign. She kept her
cold eyes fixed upon his face, as if fascinated by the horror
of a degrading confession ; but her pulses temperately
kept time, and her self-control was perfect.

Then he continued : —

' I repeat, that I ought possibly to have consulted you
earlier on this subject, and I am not at all astonished at
your surprise. I never thought to have married a second
time. My first experience, as you know, was not encourag-
ing, and since her death you have made my home very
happy. My dear Margaret, forgive me if I have seemed
unkind, but setting aside the reasons to which I have
alluded, I thought it better not to speak of this until I had
spoken to Miss Vere, "Well, I have spoken, and I thought

MARTTRDOM OF MADELINE, 163

you ought to know the result. That is why I took you to
the theatre. That is why I have spoken.'

He paused again. This time his sister replied —

' Of course, James, you are your own master. I have
no right to object.'

' That is not the question,' he cried impatiently. ' I
should certainly take no important step in life without
consulting you. I am to understand, then, that you
object?'

' Most certainly.'

' To my marrying 7 '

' No, James. To your marrying a person in Miss Vere'a
position.'
, Forster rose to his feet with an angry exclamation.

' Her position is as good as mine. I am a clod, she
is a genius.'

' She is not a lady,' returned Margaret, compressing
her lips firmly.

' Good heavens, what do you mean ? There is not a
whisper against her, she is divinely gifted, all the world is
raving about her. Not a lady 1 she is a queen 1 '

Margaret smiled — a cold sickly smile of supreme
feminine pity. Irritated by the smile, and driven out of
his usual reticence by the wine he had taken at supper,
Forster took a rapid turn round the room, and then, turn-
ing back to his sister, cried in a voice broken with
agitation —

' I thought you above these shameful prejudices. The
profession of an actress is one of the noblest under the sun.
The same insane bigotry which still pursues theatrical
performers persecuted until lately all the arts, literature
and painting more particularly. At the bottom of it all is
the Church — the Church which denied Adripnne
Lecouvreur Christian burial, and which from the be-
ginning of time has been the enemy of light, freedom,
knowledge.'

He was going on in the same strain when his sister
quietly interfered —

' My dear James, how absurd ! I am very fond of the
theatre, as you know.'

' But you despise those who act.'

154 MABTTBDOM OF MADELINE.

' Nothing of the kind. I only desire to see them in
their proper place in society.'

' Where is that, pray 1 '

' Among themselves — in their own artistic world. In
point of fact, they are much happier there.'

' Stop a moment, Margaret,' said Forster, with a short,
excited laugh. ' You speak of their world. What is mine ?
To what sphere do I belong 7 '

' You ? My dear James, you are a merchant and a
gentleman.'

' I am a tradesman, Margaret, received in certain
circles because I .have so much money, rejected in others
because J have neither the birth nor the breeding of an
aristocrat. The same measure you mete to Miss Vere i.s
meted to me — to you also — by those who affect to be our
social superiors. What nonsense it all is I What d — d
nonsense ! '

Margaret Forster shuddered. She had never before in
her life heard her brother swear, and his use of even so
mild an oath showed the situation to be desperate. She
went up to him gently, and put her cheek for his good-
night salute.

' I think I had better go now,' she said. ' We are both
tired, and if you are really in earnest, we can talk it over
to-morrow. Good-night, James.'

' Good-night,' returned Forster, just touching her cheek
with his lips. ' But don't go till you have heard me out.
I have told you that I love Miss Vere, and that I have
proposed to her, but there is something more.'
• ' Yes 7 '

' She has refused me — that is all.'

CHAPTER XXIV.

WHITE BIDS A LAST FAREWELL TO BOHEMIA.

All this time Madeline was dwelling with White in a
familiar corner of Bohemia — a quarter of the world which
is fast disappearing bsfore the brand-new dwellings of
artistic gentility — and which, when it finally disappears

MARTTB.BOM OF MADELINE. 155

(as seems inevitable), will take something witli it that even
respectability can never quite replace.

The dwellers ia Bohemia, now rapidly disappearing
like the dear old quarter itself, had many faults and not a
few vices, but these were all forgotten in the presence of
natural charm and irresistible bonhomie. They wore great
beards, drank beer, and smoked great pipes ; their clothes
were seedy and eccentric, their manners rough and merry,
their tastes the very reverse of refined ; they had very little
money, but that little they freely sha;red among one
another ; they loved late hours, wild talk, song-singing,
and the social glass ; they still regarded the theatre as an
educational institution, and talked with pagan enthusiasm
of the old gods of the stage. They were neither very
clever nor very wise, and they have left no literary monu-
ments to keep their memories fresh ; but they enjoyed life,
and in their own rough way respected the literary craft to
which they belonged. For them Bohemia was a pleasant
place.

Here Marmaduke White was born, and bred, and waa,
in due season, to die. All attetaipts to coax him to cleaner
and cosier quarters were unavailing. Although one by
one his fellow-Bohemians fell away, coiTupted by the
heresy of respectability and clean linen ; although those
who were born in the same quarter with him listened to
the new commercial culte and became prosperous men of
business ; although Jones the novelist drove his brougham
and frequented genteel parties, while Brown the painter
wore fine raiment, sold his pictures for splendid prices,
and put up at a fashionable club, White still remained as
he had been — impecunious, irresponsible, generally put-at-
elbow. It was his constant complaint that the old land-
marks were fast changing. ' If I live long enough,' he
Baid, ' I shall stand on the ruins of the last chop-house and
see the last night-houae turned into a temperance hotel.
The downfall of Bohemia dates from the day when
Thackeray became famous, smoked cigars, and built that
nice house at Kensington. It is the apotheosis of the Snob.'
FiVen at the Garriok, where one used to meet all the talent,
the Snob is rampant. There is not a. foyer of the old kind
in all London. The literary man has become a commercial

166 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

gent the artist is a spiritualised bagman — even the actor
wears fine clothes and goes to swell garden-parties. Sic
transit gloria Bohemiw ! I begin to feel like a man who
has endured beyond his due time ; a sort of Wandering
Jew, the old clothes-man of an extinct existence and a
perished creed. I should not so much care if people were
much better for the change — but they are not. Fellows
are valued now, not for what they are, but for what they
earn. The very journals are grown brazen-fronted and
rave of Mammon. A great book is a book that makes a
great deal of money ; a great artist is one who earns a
great sum. At my time of life I can't set up as a swell.
I like my glass of good beer, and my pipe, and my shirt
sleeves. When I die my epitaph will be " Et ille in
Bohemia fuit" — and I suppose I shall be the last of the
race.'

Now the good man, though he had the perennial heart
of a boy, was not young. Time, which had dealt gently
with his disposition, had thinned his once flowing hair,
made his limbs feeble, and set many a crowsfoot under his
kindly eyes. Nor where the habits of the Bohemia he
still inhabited favourable to longevity. The small hours
always found him up, at work or play, and he saw little of
the early sunshine. He was always behindhand with his
work, always working against time ; feeding irregularly,
and at unreasonable hours ; drinking, alas ! more than was
good for him, and even consuming that nicotine which
would destroy even a Promethean liver. He had saved
nothing, so that rest was denied him ; and indeed he could
not have rested, for he loved labour, in the old, reckless,
perfunctory, Bohemian way. His old friends had gradually
drifted away from him, died and been buried, or passed up
to those shining social heights where dress suits and white
linen are provided for aspiring pilgrims. Even managers
of theatres, grown genteel too, pitied him. ' Poor White,'
they would say ; *^he is such a Bohemian ! ' So that his
occupation partly failed him. Good old blank-verse plays
were no longer in demand. Brand-new adaptors, fresh
from picking the pockets of French authors in Parisian
forays, splashed him with the wheels of their triumphal
chariots ; gorgeous Jew entrepreneurs shook their heads at

MARTYBDOM OF MADELINE. 157

him. 'Vat ve vant now, my boy, is realism; plenty of
swell clothes, and upholstery, and fast cackle ; the public
don't vant poetry, and as for blank verse, it ventilates de
theatre. They'll stand Shakespeare now and then,
especially when Eugene Aram does it, because it's genteel ;
but all de rest of de drama comsh from France.' In his
anxiety to suit the market he too tried pocket-picking, but
he lacked the deft rapidity and supreme impudence of the
dramatic thief by profession. He took too much trouble
with work of this kind, and the public found it old-
fashioned.

So it came to pass that 'from one reason and another,
whether because he was physically tired out or intellectually
weary of a race in which he was unevenly handicapped,
White began to show signs of failing health. Once or
twice he took to his bed with some trifling ailment, and on
each occasion so weak were his bodily powers that he
found it hard work to get up again. He himself attached
no importance to those indications of weakness; he was as
cheerful to outward seeming, as sanguine, and as full of
magnificent ' subjects,' as ever. He still sketched out
tragedies which no one would produce on such pert
subjects as ' Semiramis,' ' Julian the Apostate,' and
' Boadicea,' and infinitely laboured comedies full of the
spirit of the Restoration. His style was still that of the
last decadence, when Lalor Shiel was a genius and Sheridan
Knowles a prophet. He still clung to the superstition
which placed Bulwer Lytton in the pantheon of tinsel
divinities. But the game was all over. Et ille in Bohemia
fuit, that was all.

One night, or rather early one morning, he came home
to the old studio in St. John's Wood, evidently under the
influence of violent fever. He had caught cold, he thought,
at the wings of the Duchess's Theatre, and, though he had
tried the panacea of hot whisky and water, applied in
allopathic doses, it had only seemed to make him worse.
He went to bed, and the next day he was unable to rise.

, When Madeline went to his bedside she was shocked at^
his appearance. He looked haggard and old, the great
veins on his temple were blue and swollen, and he gasped
like one who could hardly get his breath. The ghost of

158 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

his old smile came to his face as he reached out his
trembling hands, which were hot as fire.

' Don't be alarmed, my dear,' he said cheerily, but in a
strange, faint voice. ' I'm not quite myself, but I shall be
all right presently. I think it's the effect of Burnard's
jokes. He was at the " Harum-Scarum" last night, so
I'm afraid I partook too freely of pun-salad, which is worss
than the nightmare-producing lobster.'

He tried to laugh, but the laugh died away into a
moan, and he sank back upon his pillow.

Later on in the day the symptoms became so alarming
that a physician was sent for. He made light of the
patient's condition, but wrote him a prescription, and
ordered him to be kept as quiet as possible.

Within the next twenty-four hours the symptoms
became manifestly those of low or gastric fever. Madeline
wrote a hurried line for Forster, who came almost
immediately, accompanied by the celebrated Dr. Tain,
well known for his kindness to literary men. The good
doctor looked somewhat grave, but expressed his opinion
that the case would yield to treatment.

From that time forward Madeline scarcely left her
guardian's bedside, ministering to him with infinite tender-
ness and care. The fever ran its course for fourteen days,
during several of which White was more or less insensible.
On the morning of the fourteenth day he opened his eyes,
saw Madeline seated by his bedside, and smiled brightly.

'Are you there, my dear ? ' he asked. ' I was dreaming
about you. I thought you were a little girl again, and I
— dear me, how weak I feel ! Have I been very iU ? '

' Very ill,' answered Madeline. ' But do not talk ; the
doctor says you must not. Let me bring your beef-tea.'

The doctor had ordered him to have beef-tea in
liberal portions every hour : it was the only way, he said,
to combat the fever.

' I think I shall soon be all right,' said White, presently.
' I must take more care of myself for the future, though.
I'm getting quite an old fellow, and must go to bed at ten.

When Dr. Tain entered, White looked up and nodded
cheerfully.

' Here I am, you see 1 Pallida Mors won't have me

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 159

tHs time, after all, and I was thinkiag that I could eat a
mutton chop, well peppered.'

The doctor replied cheerfully, and patted White gently
on the shoulder ; but Madeline, catching the expression of
his face as he turned away, was somewhat troubled.

' Keep him quiet,' he whispered to her at the door.
' I'll look in again in the afternoon.'

From this intimation it became clear that the doctor
was uneasy. Scarcely had he gone when the patient ex-
hibited great restlessness and difficulty of breathing ; and
when the doctor returned in the afternoon he found him
rambling incoherently.

Leaving the sick room, he went into the studio, where
Forster, whose attentions had been unremitting, was impa-
tiently waiting.

' My fears are realised,' said the physician, gravely.
' Peritonitis has supervened.'

Before long it became manifest that White was sink-
ing ; as the hours progressed he grew weaker and weaker,
until the end seemed likely to come in stupor. With
despairing love and pity, but almost with dry eyes,
Madeline sat by the bedside ; and as she gazed upon the
wild, worn face, watched the thin, white hand laying out-
side the coverlet, and heard the quiet, monotonous breath-
ing, she already seemed to feel the shadow of death upon
her life. As one standing safe on some dark river's shore
watches the struggles of an almost spent drowning man,
and forgets everything in the intense dread and horror of
the contemplation, so she watched the sick bed ; unable to
weep, unable to pray (for, indeed, her hopes and feara
seldom at any time took the shape of prayer), but feeling
always as if with the slow ebb of her guardian's life her
life was ebbing too. For White, she felt, was her only
friend in this hard world, the only being who knew the
full extent of her own sorrow, the only kind soul for whom
she cared to live. In all her gentle theatrical ambition her
thought had been of him ; how she could bring comfort to
his heart, see the pride and pleasure kindle on his face, make
his old age pleasant, and walk by his side the dark descent
to the grave. And now, if he left her, what remained 7

In these hours of sorrow the frequent presence of

160 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

Forater was a secret source of irritation to the troubled
girl. His-rery devotion troubled her, for she seemed to
read in it, not merely friendly kindness and affection, but
an ever-encroaching assumption of a higher sympathy.
He was a good man, a true friend, she knew, but she
would have loved him far better if he had loved her less,
and her mind was quite made up — if her dear guardian
died, no living man, friend or husband, should ever take
his place.

The shadow came nearer, and it became clear at last
that White was drifting away beyond all human hope. He
suffered little or no pain, but momentarily grew weaker. At
last one morning he seemed to rally a little, and spoke
clearly and collectedly on his approaching end.

' I am going to leave you, my dear,' he said softly,
while she held his hand fondly in her own. ' I wanted to
live a little longer, just to see a dear girl at the top of the
tree, but I suppose it is all for the best. Well, I want you
to promise me one thing before I go.'

' Do not talk so,' cried Madeline, kissing the hot hand
and sobbing wildly. ' You will get well ! We will be so
happy together.'

' Don't cry, Madeline ! I'm not afraid to die, and afler
all I'm an old fogey, and the world has left me far behind.
I used to think I should live to regenerate the drama. Ah,
well ! that dream is over. I shan't even finish " Semiramis,"
the best thing I ever wrote ; but you'll give the first two
acts and the scenario to Eugene Aram when I am gone.'

He paused, and Madeline cried between her sobs —

'If you die, I shall die too! You are my only friend."

' You mustn't talk like that, my dear. You have a
great future before you, and perhaps — who knows ? — I
shall be able to see it from afar off. If the dead can watch
over those they love, I shall still take care of you — ah,
yes ! — and if there's a heaven as the preachers .say, I shall
meet poor Fred your father there, and we shall both look
down and bless 5'.ou.'

' I have no father but you 1 You are all the world to
me 1 You will not die ! '

But White continued quietly, as if pursuing his own
thoughts —

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 161

' And while dear Forster lives you will not be without
a friend ; many a time has he lightened my load, and I
wish you'd let him help you to carry yours. If you would
promise me to become his wife, I should be very happy.'

' I cannot ! You know I cannot ! '

As she uttered the words, he became conscious of a
movement in the room, and looking round saw Forster
standing at the foot of the bed.

' Is that you, Forster ? ' asked White, faintly. ' Come
here, I wish to speak to you ; ' and he added when Forster
had passed round and stood looking down sadly upon him,
' You'll be kind to Madeline, old fellow, after '

And he turned his face on the pillow to hide his tears.
Forster did not reply in words, but with tears glistening
on his own cheeks laid his hand softly on the sick man's
shoulder. Presently White looked round, and, fixing his
great dim eyes on Madeline's face, whispered —

' My dear 1 Will you go — only a little while? I wish
to speak to Forster.'

She bent over the bed and kisBed him tenderly on the
forehead ; then with a sob as if her heart wasbreaking she
left the room.

She went into the next chamber, a small room over-
looking the garden, and, sitting at the window, looked out
through streaming tears. Many minutes passed, and at
last, anxious and Impatient, she rose to return to her post.
As she did so, Forster appeared at the door and beckoned.

' Will you come now ? ' he whispered. ' He is asking
for you.'

She stepped softly in, and approached the bedside.
With a smile of ineffable love and tenderness the dying
man turned his face up to hers and, reaching out hia
tremulous hands, gave one to her, the other to Forster ;
then he said in a voice so indistinct that they had to stoop
their heads to catch the word —

' I have spoken to Forster ... he will take care of
of you, my dear ... a good fellow . . . always my best
friend, God bless him . . . now I can go in peace.'

Then feebly but firmly he drew the two hands together
and joined them ; that of Madeline lay in that of Forster,
with the fingers of the dying man encircling both ; and

162 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

she did not draw hers away for fear of disturbing her
dear guardian's last moments. In this position he closed
his eyps, and seemed to doze. A little while after the
breath fluttered, the feeble frame trembled, and the gentle
spirit was gone for ever.

What followed was to Madeline a dark and painfnl
dream. Ever wild and impressionable in her grief as well
as her joyful impulses, she yielded to such a storm of grief
as threatened for a time to overthrow her reason. During
this time of sorrow Madame de Berny watched her with
maternal tenderness, and the touch of her tender ministra-
tion brought a certain comfort.

But when the first wild shock was over, the brave dis-
position of the girl asserted itself, and, hushing the trmiult
of her pain, she went with Madame de Berny to see the
place which Porster had chosen for his friend's last resting-
place. It was a pretty spot, in a green corner of the
cemetery at -Hampstead, with green boughs all round,
flowers on every side, and the spires of the great city in
the distance ; and standing here, near the place chosen for
the grave, Madeline could hear the chimes of London
sounding faint and far away.

"When the day of the funeral came, she went as chief
mourner, for her soul revolted at the cruel custom which
keeps our womankind from following the dead. She stood
by the side of the grave, heard the solemn words of bless-
ing, and saw the coflSn lowered to its place ; and she raised
her weeping face to the bright skies, praying and believing
that her guardian's spirit had gone there.

Near her that day stood a motley crowd of artistic
Bohemians, bearded men for the most part, shabby of
apparel, but full of honest grief; some of them, with true
tears in their eyes, came softly up to speak a few words of
sympathy to the mourning girl ; and she loved the rough
fellows for their resemblance to him who had passed
away.

Then Madeline went back to the home that was home
no longer, and thought day and night of the beloved dead.

It was many weeks after these sad events that Forster
came one day to St. John's Wood, and found Madeline

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 163

still sitting in the shadow of her great grief ; but she had
found one sweet comfort in looking over her guardian's
papers and placing them in order with her loving hand,
for she remembered one lifelong dream of the poor Bohem-
ian — ^to see his beloved plays arranged together and pub-
lished in book form ; and she thought to herself that the
world should know what a beautiful genius it had lost,
when it saw the creatures of his imagination gathered
together for the first time.

When Porster came they talked for some time of the
proposed publication. An old friend of White, eminent as
a critic and a dramatic poet, was to revise the work, and
prepare it with a short biography, and at the end of the
book were to be printed a few last memorials, and some
obituary verses by members of the Bohemian Club, to which
White had belonged.

Presently, however, Porster changed the subject, and
spoke of the wish which was still nearest his heart.' Then,
when Madeline turned away as if shocked and pained, he
took her hand and said earnestly —

' It was his wish, do not forget that. He knew I loved
you, and he joined our hands together.'

' No, no I ' -said Madeline. ' Do not speak of it — he
knew it was impossible^he could not wish it.'

' Madeline, he did wish it, with all his heart. Listen
to me, my darling ! That day before he joined our hands
together he asked to speak to me alone — do you remember ?

' Yes.'

' Do you know what he \«ished to say ? '

Madeline shook her head sadly.

' He wished to tell me something concerning yourself.
"Forster," he said, "I tell you these things because I trust
you before God, because I think that it is best that you
should know, and because I feel you will never love my
darling less." Then, Madeline, he told me why you refused
to marry me, why you had said you would never marry
any living man.'

Pale as death, Madeline turned her face away.

' He told you that ! ' she murmured, shivering as if
chilled. .

' He told me everythiiig, my darling ; and now, know-
112

164 -MARTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

ing everything, knowing your great sorrow, and knowing
and loving you a thousandfold, I ask you again to become
ray wife.'

CHAPTER XXV.

MADELINE CHANGES HEE NAME.

A FEW months later the following announcement appeared
amongst the ' Births, Deaths, and Marriages,' on the first
page of the ' Times ' : —

On the 23rd, at Christ Church, Hampstead, James Forster, of
Hampden House, Cromwell Eoad, South Kensington, to Madeline,
only daughter of the late Fred. Hazelmere, Esq , of the Inner
Temple.

Only a few of those who read this announcement were
aware that the lady in question was the young actress
known under another name to the audiences of the Theatre
Koyal Parthenon.

It was a very quiet marriage. After the ceremony
the newly married couple drove to the cemetery, in the
immediate neighbourhood, and Madeline placed a fresh
garland on White's grave ; then with a heavy heart she
returned to a quiet wedding breakfast, to which only a
few very intimate friends were invited, and in the after-
noon departed with her husband to Switzerland.

Long before that wedding day Madeline had discovered,
by secret inquisition of her own heart, that the tender
respect she felt for James Forster was not yet love — not
such love, at least, as blends the lives of man and woman
in perfect sympathy and joy ; and she would have given
the world, therefore, if he had been content to remain what
he had been — her friend, her brother, her benefactor.
But seeing clearly -that his happiness depended on the
formation of a closer relationship, she, by slow degrees,
was reconciled to the possibility. What weighed with her
more than any other consideration was the thought of
poor White's last injunction. He had wished this union
—had, indeed, enjoined it upon her — so that to shrink
from fulfilling his fond request seemed selfish and un-

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 165

grateful, and the more so as she i emembered so vividly
the noble and unselfish devotion of Forster during all the
last years of poor White's earthly struggle.

So she consented, not without many _secret tears and
forebodings, for the shadow of her first cruel experience
was still upon her, and she could not stifle the secret
sense of shame.

Before finally yielding her hand, however, she ques-
tioned Forster again, and more explicitly, concerning his
secret interview with White, just before the latter's death.

' You wish me to be your wife,' she said, ' but are you
sure that you know what you are asking ? I feel quite an
old woman, and I am not good enough to be your wife.
Sometimes, even now, the old restless fit is on me, the old
vdcked wilfulness. I shall never bring happiness to any
one, I am sure.'

* You are unjust to yourself. Dear Madeline, trust
me. I will try to deserve your trust.'

Do youknow that there are some things, some thoughts
and acts, which seem to pollute the very air we breathe ;
to make the bright world hateful ; to chill the very heart
within us, like the touch of death ? I feel like a girl who
has be6n shrouded for the grave and who still exists, but
who will never have the. wholesome, happy life of good
people. Do not ask me to marry. Choose some inno-
ceiit girl, and give your love to her.'

' We cannot love as we will,' said, Forster, earnestly,
' but as God wills ; and I have given my love to you.
Dearest, it is just because you have been unhappy that I
yearn. to bring you happiness; just because you have been
w'ronged that I long to make amends. You must leave
these sorrowful thoughts behind you ; you must rise from
the tomb of your dead grief, and live anew.'

' I cannot ; it is too late.'

' Yet you are so young, so beautiful ; and I love you
BO much.'

' I do not deserve such love.'
- ' You deserve far more than I can bring you.'

' Did Mr. White tell you what I had been ? Do not
turn away, but look me in the face — you see I am not
afraid. What did he say to you ? TeU me everything.'

166 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

' He told me that you had been deceived by a villain,
who afterwards abandoned you. Dearest, he did you full
justice — he knew that you were innocent, an angel deluded
by a devil.'

' I was not innocent,' returned Madeline, sadly. ' I was
to blame, and ah ! I was so ungrateful. If I had been
innocent, do you think I should ever have placed myself in
that man's power ? '

' You were very younjr, and it is an evil world. Do
not speak of it again. Bury the past, and become my
honoured wife.'

' You say that now; but some day, years hence, per-
haps, the past would rise like a ghost, and your lift would
be darkened by regret and shame.'

' Never by shame ! never ! '

' I am not fit to make connections, I am not fit to have
friends ; it is better for such women as I to be alone in
the world, and then, if shame comes, it falls only on the
one who has the most right to suffer. It is this thought
that reconciles me to the death of my dear guardian. lam
alone in the world now, and can bring harm to no one.'

To a man like Forster it was terrible to hear her talk
so. He was willing to forget the past, and he saw no
dark cloud looming in the future. He had set his heart
on making Madeline his wife, and he would never rest
until his object had been attained. ' She hesitates to take
the plunge,' he said to himself, ' but once she has taken it
all will be well.' So he pleaded and pleaded, until at
length Madeline was brought to consent.

It was a short honeymoon, but to Madeline, at least, it
was a tolerably happy one. She had refused to take a
maid with her, and he had consented to dispense with the
services of a valet, so they spent their days in happy un-
concern, roaming about among the Swiss mountains, travel-
ling from one picturesque village to another, and living in
little quaint rustic inns, whose primitive accommodation
would have made Miss Forster turn cold with dismay*

Jt was just the kind of life which Madeline loved.
After all, the unnatural atmosphere of town smoke and
footliijhts had not left much taint upon her ; she felt once

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 167

more the little girl who, with tangled hair and dis-
ordered dress, had raced like a young untrained colt about ,
the marshes of Grayfleet.

But the pleasures of the honeymoon were not destined
to continue. Forster, though a rich man, could never be
spared long from the office — so at the end of a month he
told his young wife that the two must turn their faces
towards home. ' That's the penalty of marrying a City
man,' he said ; ' things always seem to go wrong when I'm
away ; and though I grumble about the office a good deal,
I think, after all, I like it.'

' I'm sure you do.'

' I shall have to leave you a good deal alone, my
darling.'

' Never mind that. While you are away I'll be think-
ing what I can do to make you comfortable when you
come home again.'

' You'll do no such thing, my dear. I'll not have my
Madeline made a drudge. You'll enjoy yourself as you do
now, and my sister is quite willing to look after things a
bit. She's used to it, and doesn't mind.'

'Miss Forster?'

' Yes, Margaret.'

' Is she going to live with us ? '

' Well, yes, I suppose so. You see she has lived with
me for years, and it never occurred to me that you would
wish her to go. She will be very useful to you, Madeline ;
besides, she'll be company for you while I'm away.'

To this Madeline said nothing. She felt she had no
right to object to this arrangement, but she was sorry it
had been made. However, for her husband's sake she
resolved to make the best of it, ^nd to look upon Miss
Forster henceforth as an affectionate sister and friend.

One afternoon, about a month after the wedding-day,
a carriage and pair drove up to the door of Forster's town
house, the large handsomely furnished mansion in South
Kensington, and Forster, alighting, handed out his bride.

, ' Welcome home, vay darling,' he said, giving her hand
a tender pressure.

Madeline's heart bounded at the touch, andj with
flushed cheek and sparkling eyes, she ran up the steps to

168 MAUTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

the open door. On the threshold stood Miss Forster, with
a distant smile and a cordial ' how do you do ? ' Madeline
held forth both her hands, but the lady's stately figure
became more stately as she coldly placed her fingers in
one of the palms, and graciously led the way into the
house. Somewhat chilled at so cold a greeting, Madeline
followed her through a stately hall into a handsomely
furnished room. Madeline sat down, and Miss Forster
paused before her.

' If you will be so good as to give me your keys,' she
said politely, 'your maid shall unpack your things.
James asked me to engage one for you, and I hope she
will give satisfaction.'

With a nod and a smile Madeline handed over the
keys, and Miss Forster retired.

Madeline sighed, leaned back in her chair, and looked
around her. She was in the drawing-room of Hampden
House, a spacious apartment, elegantly furnished in the
most costly style. Her eyes, carelessly scanning the costly
pictures which covered the walls, became suddenly fixed
upon one. She leapt up from her seat, ran over to it,
stood for a moment regarding it with tear-dimmed gaze.
Then, raising herself on tiptoe, she pressed upon it her
warm, ripe, trembling lips. It was a pretty little land-
scape, looking insignificant enough in its golden setting,
but trebly dear to Madeline, for it was almost the last
picture which poor White had painted. Saddened a little
at the memory it brought her, she stood looking at it in a
dream ; she felt the tears roll slowly down her cheeks, the
sobs contract her throat — she was growing almost hys-
terical, when a voice recalled her to herself.

' Shall I show you to your rooms ? '

She started, turned, and found herself face to face with
her husband's sister. Unable to hide her tears, she said,
turning faintly —

' Thank you, I think I should like to be alone. I feel
rather tired and depressed to-day.'

Miss Forster said nothing, but quietly led the way out
of the room.

Two of the best rooms in the house had been fitted up
for Madeline's special use, and as she walked into them

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 169

she felt for the first time that day that she had really come
home. Here, as elsewhere, there were splendid upholstery,
splendid pictures, tastefully designed ceilings, and dim
rose-coloured curtains to moderate the light ; but besides
all this Madeline saw some of the crude but well-loved
pictures which brought to her the fond memory of her
guardian ; there was a little bookcase, containing his
favourite volumes ; and, above all, there were his favourite
plays. She saw all this, but she saw more. Passing on
through the sitting-room she looked into the dressing-
room adjoining it. She found her dresses laid out, and a
smart maid kneeling before a box which was half un-
packed. The girl rose and asked which dress her mistress
would wear for dinner, but Madeline said —

' I don't know ; any one ; will you leave me alone,
please ; and when I want you I will ring.'

The maid retired, and Madeline, left to herself, re-
turned to the sitting-room. She took off her bonnet and
cloak, and sat down in an easy chair close to a gipsy table
on which stood a silver tray and some tea. She poured
out a cup, and, while sipping it, looked with dubious eyes
around her.

' I ought to be happy,' she said. ' So I am ; so I will
be. He is so good and kind ! I trust to God he will
never be made to repent. If his sister knew — H the world
knew — but why should they ? — I cannot undo the past,
but I can guide the future. Yes, I will bury my dead, as
he said, and try to forget.'

A light tap upon the door. Madeline started up, but
before she could speak the door opened and a tiny figure
came in — a little bright-eyed boy, who ran forward with
outstretched hands, and sprang with a joyful cry into her
lap. She clasped him fondly in her arms, and kissed him
eagerly.

'My darling, you have come to bid me welcome
home ? '

' Yes, mamma.'

'•Who sent you ? '

'Papa. Kiss me again, please. Papa says if I am
good you are sure to love me.'

He held up hia rosy lips and she kissed them again

170 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

and again ; then she caught him up in her arms and
carried him to her dressing-room. She turned over the
things in her unpacked boxes and produced some toys —
these she gave to the child, embracing him the while.

' Do you know why I brought these, dear ? '

' No, mamma, unless because, as papa says, you are so
good.'

' No,' she said quietly, ' it is because I love you, and I
want you to love me.'

Late that night Madeline came quietly down from her
room and entered the library. Forster was still there ;
he was smoking a cigar, and looking through a batch of
letters which had accumulated during his absence.

' Why, Madeline, can't you sleep ? ' he asked, as she
came forward.

' No, James, not till I have thanked you for all your
goo.dness to me. Tell me, how can I repay you 7 '

' By being happy in your home.'

Good advice, and for a time at least Madeline followed
it. She was happy. Her husband was a good deal away,
but she had always his boy to comfort her, and upon the
child she lavished all the affection of her impulsive heart.
There was one thing only in the house which chilled and
repelled her ; it was the presence of her husband's sister.

Madeline had not been long in the house before she
found that the cold eyes of Margaret Forster watched her
continually in suspicious distrust, as if trying in vain to
penetrate the mystery which shrouded the young girl's
life. But this Madeline soon forgot. Why should she
fear Miss Forster ? The past was buried ; and as yet she
had no idea that the future had its hidden mystery to
disclose.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE PUPIL OE THE IMPECCABLE.

Within the charmed circle to which he was introduced
by Ponto, Gavrolles was popular in the extreme. He
possessed all the enthusiasm of the Eesthetics, combined
with an impudence and a knowledge of the -world—

MAMTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 171

especially of the gay world of Paris — which were ex-
quisitely charming. He knew all the wits and poets of
the Empire, and his acquaintance with scabreux literature
was profound ; yet he had sat at the feet of Victor Hugo,
and was a Eepublican by profession. His own verses had
been praised by the impeccable Gautier. He could talk
glibly of Art for Art's sake, of the heresy of instruction, of
Villon and Bohemia, and of the Renaissance. He wore
his hair long, had a willowy droop of the shoulders, and
adored the culte of the lily. He had a shrill style, a shrill
voice, a shrill disposition. Inspired young ladies found
him charming, feeble young gentlemen paid him the
homage of imitation.

On his return to London, GavroUes took rooms in one
of the bye-streets near Portland Place. They were rather
high up, but he had them furnished in the best sesthetic
style, with a few risky pictures and a small collection of
books. ' Come and see me,' he would say ; ' I am only a
poor artiste, but I have my books, and in these I live.'
On the whole they were not nice books — a Philistine
might have even called them nasty ; but many of them
bore the autographs of the writers, and were priceless
accordingly.

About this time the name of Gavrolles began to be a
good deal talked about, as that of a young Frenchman
with Communist views who had written some delightfully
■wicked volumes of verse. The 'Megatherium,' inspired
by Ponto, had a good deal to say about him, classing him
in the great bagnio of Art somewhere by the side of
Gautier and Baudelaire ; ft^d taking occasion at the same
time to express its horror of realists like Zola, who called
a spade a spade, and reduced the fair features of vice to a
caput mortuum.

One night, CrieflP, who knew everybody, took Suther-
land to the lodgings of Gavrolles, and introduced him.
Quite a little symposium was there, including Ponto the
fatuous ; Cassius Gass, a lean and limp critic from Cam-
bridge ; Blanco Serena, and several other painters ; young
Botticelli Jones, and one or two more callow poets, not to
speak of Wallace MacNeill, the editor of the ' Mega-
therium.'

172 MARTYRDOM UF MADELINE.

Sutherland sat very silent. After the first, quick look
at Gavrolles, and a second shock ot recognition, he re-
mained quiescent, but quietly observant.

The talk was of ' Lily and Eue,' an anonymous poem
which had just appeared, and which Ponto had just
criticised with admiration.

' I wonder who is the writer 7 ' said Botticelli Jones.
' There are passages in it which are worthy of Byron.'

' Byron was a Philistine,' cried Ponto ; ' he could
never have written a piece of this kind. Look at the
technique of his verse ! It would disgrace a schoolboy !
No, this is a cameo cut by an artist.'

' Shall I confess it ! ' observed Gavrolles, smiling
languidly. ' I am of Henri Taine's opinion, and prefer
to your Byron our Alfred de Musset.'

Here Crieff, who was pvffing carelessly at a briar-root
pipe, threw himself back in his chair and laughed loudly.

' I say ! Is it possible you don't know 7 '

' What 7 ' cried several voices.

» That MacAlpine '

A shudder ran through the assemblage at the mention
of the hated name.

' That MacAlpine has acknowledged the authorship of
this poem.'

' What poem ? ' demanded Ponto, trembling and turning
pale.

'Why, of "Lily and Eue." Go and buy the third
edition — you'll find his name on the title-page.'

A terrible silence followed. The men looked in horror
at one another. One man rose, livid and ghastly, put his
hand to his head and left without a word. It was the
editor of the ' Megatherium.'

' Poor MacNeill,' cried Crieff, with another laugh.
' This is the second trick of the kind that MacAlpine has
played him; this is the second time that he has devoted
columns of praise to an author whom he would gladly see
handed over, like the old heretics, to the secular arm. It
only shows what humbug criticism is ! '

' Excuse me,' said Gass the critic, hysterically, ' criti-
cism is not humbug. It would be easy to show, on a
profounder examination of this disagreeable work, that it

MAMTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 173

is the work of a Philistine. The over- accentuation of the
sensuous passages (which, by the way, are not sensuc us,
but prurient and ponderous), the want of finish in the
trochaic couplets, the crudeness of the poetic termin-
ology- '

' Would all have been evident enough,' interrupted
Crieff, dryly, ' if MacAlpine's name had been on the title-
page. Without that, even superhuman insight, like yours,
could not detect them.'

And he laughed again ; but no one joined in the laugh
except Blanco Serena, who was not a little amused. There
was a general feeling of discomfort, to relieve which
Gavrolles went to his bookcase, and took down several
new importations from France. Passed from hand to
hand, these works were freely and generally discussed;
but when they reached Crieff, that rude person again
shocked the sensibilities of his companions.

' The literature of the Lollipop,' he said with a grin.
' Somehow I never touch any of it without feeling nasty ;
" sticky " all over, as it were.'

' To the mind of a Philistine,' observed the critic Gass,
severely, ' such things do not, appeal. I regret to see that
a certain person, who shall be nameless, is drifting more
and more into moral Philistinism. Well, he will at least
be able to say, " Et ego in Arcadia fui," when it is too late
to return.'

Crieff laughed good-humouredly.

' I dare say it is my early training,' he said, ' and the
fact that I was taught to respect all women in the person
of my mother. But here is my friend Sutherland, who ia
a Philistine of Philistines, for he actually believes, with
St. Benedict, that the law of purity is binding upon both
sexes alike, and in his benighted eyes your Gautier, your
Baudelaire, and " hoc genus omne " are simply dirty
descendants of Sir Pandarus of Troy.'

' I sincerely hope you are libelling your friend,' ob-
served the critic, glancing at Sutherland. _ ' Personal
purity, as you call it, is simply a reminiscence of asceticism,
and one of the many fallacies we owe to the mediaeval
perversions of Christianity.'

' Bosh,' returned Crieff, bluntly.

174 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

Sutherland, who throughout the conversation had
scarcely taken his eyes off Gavrolles, now spoke.

' I am neither an ascetic nor a Puritan, but I must
frankly confess that the literature you are discussing ex-
cites my strongest abhorrence. Whatever is unfit for a
pure woman to read is unfit to be read by a pure man.
"Would you give these books to your wives and sisters^
that is the question ? *

' Certainly,' cried Ponto from the other side of the
room. ' Provided their sesthetic education had been com-
plete, they would find nothing but pleasure from the
perusal. Why in Heaven's name should Woman remain
for ever the slave of Virtue ? I would make her the arch-
priestess of the Beautiful, ministering to mortals in all the
passionate nudity of Art.'

' And you, monsieur ? ' said Sutherland, turning sud-
denly to Gavrolles. ' What is your opinion ? '

' Oh, I am an artiste,' answered the Frenchman, with a
shrug of the shoulders and an unpleasant smile. ' I, too,
would make woman the priestess of Beauty. Ah, yes,
with the greatest of possible pleasure ! '

The words were of little meaning, but the tone was
significant, and a titter went round the room. Sutherland's
face darkened.

' I presume that your experience of the sex is large ? '
he asked in a low voice. ' Gentlemen of your nation are
generally fortunate '

' I am no exception to the rule,' answered Gavrolles.
' My whole life has been une honne fortune ! But look
you, as I say, ^I am an attiste — in affairs of gallantry as
in all others. I do not suffer these things to cloud the
equanimity of my artiste's soul. When I have plucked a
rose — observe ! I smell it ; I wear it a little while ; then
I take it from my button-hole and throw it away. Yon
understand ? '

' I think so,' said Sutherland, rising to his feet, 'Pray
does it ever occur to you what becomes of the rose after-
wards ! If it is trampled underfoot, who is responsible ? '

' Pardon me, that is the rose's affair, not mine. Au
reste, roses must bloom and fade ; Art, Art — ^for which I
live — is imperishable and divine.'

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 175

It was hard to say whether he was jesting or in earnest,
for his manner was peculiar, a combination of mock-
enthusiasm and flippant audacity. But despite his ap-
pearance of sang-froid, something in the face and manner
of Sutherland thrilled him, and reminded him of an un-
pleasant meeting many years before.

He bowed profoundly as Siitherland prepared to go,
and held out his hand — which the other did not seem to-
notice.

' Au revoir I ' he said gaily ; ' and au revoir, Monsieur
Crieff. My friend Ponto will convert you presently ; ah,
yesl'

In another minute Crieff and Sutherland were in the
street. The latter was very pale, and trembled violently.

' My dear Sutherland, what is the matter ? '

' Nothing ; only that man's face and his talk have upset
me. I could have strangled him.'

' What an excitable fellow you are ! ' said Crieff, taking
his arm. ' Upon my life, you take these things far too
seriously. The other day you were seriously angry with
Lagardire, and here you are actually distressing yourself
over the prattle of a child like Gavrolles.'

'You do not understand. I know the man, and have
reason to remember him.'

' That alters the case. Where did you meet ? '

' In France — some years ago.'

Crieff listened for further explanations, but none came.
Pressed to say more, Sutherland shook his head and
relapsed into silence; so the little journalist proceeded to
give his muscular friend a lesson in social philosophy.

' You are too thoroughly in earnest, and in company
your earnestness makes other people uncomfortable. Life
would be impossible if every bit of idle chit-chat or ad
captandum argument were taken au se'rieux. Looked at in
the proper light, Gavrolles is charming — a droll creature
with a touch of genius. To you he is merely a dissolute
young man, who reads improper books.'

A To me,' returned Sutherland, fiercely, 'he is a
thorough scoundrel, whom I should like to choke.'

Crieff soon perceived that remonstrance was useless,
and, mentally determining not to introduce his companioD

176 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINB.

to any more choice spirits, he changed the subject. The
pair soon parted, Crieff to stroll down to the gallery of the
House of Commons, Sutherland to pace the solitary streets,
full of the troubled recollections awakened by that chance
encounter.

Later on that evening GavroUes sat alone in his
lodgings. He now recollected Sutherland perfectly, and
roundly cursed the unlucky chance which had occasioned
a second meeting. On reflection, however, he felt con-
fident that the Englishman could do him no serious damage
in the eyes of his new acquaintances, even if he attempted
to do so, which was doubtful.

When the clock struck eight he lit a cigar and strolled
out into the streets. As he walked along, his attention
was attracted by a theatre bill in one of the shop windows.
One of the names struck him immediately as that of the
young actress whose portrait he had seen in the studio of
Blanco Serena. He looked at the name of the theatre ; it
was the Theatre Eoyal Parthenon. He strolled away in
the direction of that building.

On arriving at the theatre, however, he found the doors
closed, and discovered that the theatrical season had ended
on the previous Saturday.

Strolling carelessly along, he entered one of the smaller
theatres in the Strand, a house devoted to opera bouffe.
He paid his money and got a seat in the back row of the
pit. There, perspiring and half- suffocated,, he was listen-
ing to the hideous din and watching the insane performance
upon the stage, when his attention was attracted by a
movement in a box above him, and glancing up he beheld
.1 face he knew.

The face of a woman, young and very beautiful, though
a trifle pale and sad. She was plainly clad in black satin,
ffith an opera cloak of snowy white, with fringe of down
encircling her white neck. No ornaments in her hair, no
ewels on her person, and surely she needed neither, for
her simple pathetic beauty was better unadorned.

With her was a gentleman, not young, but with the
fresh face aTid manners of a boy. He looked very happy
and proud, and gazed less at the stage than at his com-
panion, as, indeed, was natural.

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 177

These two were our heroine and her husband, James
Forster.

A child might have gathered, from the man's look» of
pleasure and admiration, that Forster loved the beautiful
creature by his side. Ilis eyes scarcely left her, he was
eager to respond to her slightest look or word. When she
talked, he hung upon her speech ; and when she was silent
he waited for her to speak again.

Gavrolles comprehended the situation directly — almost
as rapidly as he recognised Madeline. For the rest of the
evening he occupied himself in looking up, with a keen
and cat-like gaze. How beautiful she seemed ! How much
fairer and riper than when he had seen her last, in her
wild girlish gaucherie 1 Pardieu, she was a child then ;
but now !

As he gazed his thoughts went back to the days when he
had seen her first, a giddy schoolgirl, a very will-o'-the-wisp
among the decorous young French damsels of the ladies'
seminary. He remembered her wild ways, her odd say-
ings in schoolgirl's French, her pretty fits of petulance,
her innocent entanglement with him, the ever-seductive
Gavrolles — or Belleisle, as he then called himself. He
thought of the mad elopement, and the strange days that
followed, when the fluttering bird was in his power.
' After all,' he reflected, ' I was a fool to let her go.'
And the man with her, who seemed so greatly to
adore her, who was he? Surely her lover; perhaps her
husband — but no, that was scarcely possible. A rich man,
certainly ; yes, with all the style and manner of a rich
man. She, too, with her popular fame, her great artistic
position, was no longer poor. Perhaps, after all, it was
for the best that he had let her go, since fortune had been
kind to her, and what was lost could be easily regained.

Gavrolles smiled. Once, when the audience was busy
applauding the actors, his exhilaration was so great that
he impulsively kissed his hand in the direction of the box.
The action was unnoticed, of course, but it seemed to place
him en rapport with his old love.

' Courage, Gavrolles ! ' he said to himself. ' You are
Fortune's favourite, after all. Just when you were in
despair, just when your purse was empty and your great

178 MARTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

Boul in despair, the cards befriend yon, and a good angel
appearu in the distance. Madeline, mon ange, I greet you.
You -will be my guardian spirit after all.'

When the opera was over, Gayrolles stood in the comer
of the box lobby, and watched Madeline go past on
Forster's arm. He kept his face well averted, for he did
not wish to be recognised, just yet. Then, following the
pair to the theatre door, he saw a brougham draw up,
smiled upon the pair as they entered it, and gaily lit a
cigar as they drove away.

CHAPTER XXVII.

ADELE LAMBERT,

Cigar in mouth, Gavrolles strolled leisurely along the
streets in the direction of Eegent Circus. Arrived in
"Waterloo Place he found the pavement thronged with those
painted faces,

Which only smile by night beneath the gas,

and saw what, to a man with any pity in his soul, is the
saddest sight beneath the sun.

Bright jets of gas were flaming over the Criterion
Eestaurant, the night houses on every side were opening
their foul jaws, and from the darkness of every street and
lane were fluttering forth the moths of night. Painted and
bedizened creatures, fluttering gladly in the gaslight ; some
faint and feeble, as if already scorched with the destroying
flame ; others splendidly merry, with the new flush of the
infernal brightness upon them; many beautiful beyond
measure, with faces as pure and sweet as those of little
children that know not sin.

With the smile and swagger of one who knew his
company, Gavrolles made his way from group to group,
accosted from time to time by some passing figure, and
more than once plucked softly by the sleeve. Once, as he
paused under a lamplight, a slight form, clad in the
thinnest of silk, paused before him, and a baby face leered
hideously up into his; but he pushed tihe shape softly

MARTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 179

aside, and swaggered on. To him, as to many of his class,
the sight was quite proper and pleasant ; his fine nerves
were not shocked, his noble soul was not sadly stirred ;
indeed, such a man might walk confidently by the side of
the very flames of Hell, and be conscious of nothing but
the picturesque lights and shadows of the dreadful place.
Yes, for as Swedenborg has sublimely guessed, Hell is
Heaven to the devilish nature, and the penalty of the
morally damned is not to know that it is Hell.

Not far away, that very night, walked another man, one
of nobler fibre, with the shuddering sense of infinite pity
and despair. He, too, was familiar with the sight of moral
leprosy and spiritual disease, and as he gazed on those
painted things, all and each of whom were infected with
the goitre of incurable infamy, he felt weary of the world.
' So long as this is possible,' thought Edgar Sutherland,
' how can the dead Christ rise ? '

Crossing the street at the Quadrant, Sutherland saw,
standing iii the lamplight of the corner, two figures, one
an elderly woman with a face swollen and deformed by
drink, the other a wild-looking girl, poorly clad, coughing
violently as if in sharp physical pain. As he was passing
he heard them speak to each other in French ; he paused
and listened.

' You are a fool, Adfele,' said the elder woman. ' Come
and have some brandy — you will be all right then.'

The girl laughed hoarsely and uttered a coarse oath,
then the cough seized her again with a paroxysm so violent
that her whole frame shook like a leaf;

' Devil take the cough,' she said. ' I shall have to go
into the hospital after all.'

A few more words passed, and then the elder woman,
impatient to reach the bar of some neighbouring public-
house, ran across the street. The young girl was feebly
following, when Sutherland stepped forward, lifting his
hat.

' Good evening, mademoiselle,' he said, speaking in
her own language. ' I am afraid you are ill ? '

Something in the tone startled her, and the gentle
voice, the respectful gesture, acted like a charm. She
replied courteously, with a polite inclination of the head.
h2

180 MARTTBDOM OF MADELINE. ■

'lam not very well, monsieur; I have been ill fot
some time.'

' I am very sorry. If you will take my advice you
■will go home — you are not fit to be in the streets.'

She gazed at' him strangely, and then said —

' Pardon, monsieur, but you are not a Frenchman ? '

'No.'

' I think I have seen your face before 7 You have
been abroad, — in Brussels ? '

As she spolse, something in her form and face seemed
femiliar; with an exclamation he took her by the arm,
and drew her close under the light (jf the lamp.

' Is it possible ? ' he cried. ' Adele Lambert ? Do you
remember me ? '

That she did so was now clear ; for with a hysterical
cry she shrank from him and hid her face in her hands.
Two years before, in Brussels, he had found this poor
creature, then a pretty girl, in the power of infamous
people, who Iiad decoyed her to ruin ; with infinite trouble
and great pecuniary expense he had released her and re-
stored her to her friends ; and when he had last heard of her
she seemed on the threshold of a new and purer life. And
now, this was the sequel ! He shuddered in horror, as he
loooked upon her spectral face.

' My poor girl,' he said gently, ' what brought you to
England ? '

Then she told him, with many tears ; for the sight of
him and the remembrance of his former charity touched
the deep springs of sorrow in her poor outcast soul. She
had indeed gone home, but not to stay. Soon after her
return her mother had died, and her father had taken
another wife ; her life was not happy, and the taint of her
shame still clung to her ; and at last, in despair, she had
drifted baqk to Brussels, finding all ways of life closed to
her but one.

' And since then, monsieur. I have suffered so much.
I was never strong, and now I am — as you see. A year
ago they took me to the hospital in my owu country —
would to God I had died there ! but I came out, and after
that I went from bad to worse. Two months ago I came
with that woman to England. 1 thought no one would

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 181

know me here, and now — is it not strange ? — I meet with
yoii.'

As she spoke, another figure came sauntering up in
the full light of the lamp. It wag GavroUes, indifferent
and happy, smoking his cigar. The molnentthe girl's eyes
fell upon him, her manner changed ; and, to Sutherland's
astonishment, she uttered a cry, and rushed up to the
newcomer.

' Let me look at your face,' she cried. ' Quick !. It is he 1 '

And she clung with strange fury to GavroUes, who in
vain attempted to shake her off.

'Let me go,' he said in English The woman is
drunk. I will call the police.'

With a fierce shriek she raised her hand and struck at
his face with her clenched fist.

' You devil ! You devil ! ' she cried in French. ' I
have been waiting so long to see you, and now at last we
meet. If I had a knife I would stab you. It is I — ^Adele.'

' I do not know you ! '

' It is false. You are a liar and a devU.'

And she struck him in the face with both hands. Livid
and trembling, GavroUes threw her off; she fell back
screaming, and would have fallen had not Sutherland
caught her in his arms. While he held her she struggled
madly, hysterical with an overmastering passion. A crowd
of outcast women and well-dressed men already surrounded
them, and a policeman, pushing his way into the circle,
roughly demanded the cause of the disturbance.

GavroUes forced a laugh.

' It is nothing,' he said. ' Only a drunken woman, a3
you see.'

The policeman approached the girl and touched her on
the shoulder.

' Come now, just you move on, or I'll have to run you
in,' he said ; and as she spoke rapidly in her own lan-
guage, he shook his sagacious head and continued, ' We
don't want none of your parleyvoo. Leave the gentleman
alone, d'ye hear, and move on.'

' The woman is not ,drunk,' said Sutherland. ' She is
ill, and — look, she has fainted ! '

Overmastered by her excitement, she bad indeed fallen

182 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

into a sort of faint or fit. Sutherland supported her gently,
while the crowd, with cries and murmurs, pressed closely
round them. In the commotion which ensued Gavrolles
slipped away, stepped into a hansom, and was driven oiF.

' Keep back — ^give her air ! ' cried Sutherland. ' Doea
any one know where she lives? '

At this moment the woman whom he had first seen in
her company stepped forward.

' Yes, monsieur, we lodge together. Look up, Adfele 1
What ails you?'

' Help me to take her home,' said Sutherland, in a low
voice.

The policeman called a cab, and Sutherland raised the
girl in his arms and placed her in it ; then he stepped in
himself, followed by the other woman.

They drove to a wretched lodging-house in Gerrard
Street, Soho, a dismal fetid den, presided over by a hideous
old Frenchwoman, who at first refused to take her in.

' You'd better drive her to the hospital,' said this per-
son, blocking the doorway. ' She owes me two weeks' rent
already, and I can't take care of her.'

The sight of Sutherland's purse, however, worked
wonders ; and with many protestations of sympathy the
hag suffered the girl to be carried to a room upstairs. The
fainting fit had by this time passed away, to be followed
by an attack of hysterical weeping and coughing. Suther-
land shuddered, for as she coughed and spat he saw on
her lips a thin tinge of crimson blood.

He had her well cared for that night, and the next day
he called with a physician, and found her in bed, wild and
ghastly, as if she had not got long to live.

' Ah ! monsieur, forgive me I ' she cried, with a sad
smile, reaching out her wasted hand. ' I was me'chante last
night, but to see that man made me mad. I think I should
have killed him had I been able. I was good and gentille
when he first knew me, and he coaxed me away from my
friends and took me to that evil place where you found
me. But for him I might have been a good woman — ^you
comprehend.'

' Do not speak of it now. This gentleman is a doctor.
I have brought him to see you.'

MAUTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 183

' Ah, monsieur, bow good yon are ! ' sobbed the girl,
with a look of ineffable gratitude ; and she raised his hand
to her feverish lips and kissed it.

Edgar Sutherland was not the man to do any good
deed by halves. Thanks to his generosity, Adfele Lambert
was removed to a better lodging, and comfortably nursed ;
the doctor's opinion being that the disease, though certainly
mortal, would progress slowly, and that much might be
done to alleviate her distressing condition. Not content
with assisting her with money, the young man visited her
almost daily, and did his best to lighten her miserable lot ;
talked to her cheerfully, read to her ; and without obtrud-
ing any moral or religious sentiment, contrived to turn
her bewildered and despairing thoughts in the direction of
some heavenly compassion.

In the course of these kindly visits he learned the whole
story of the unfortunate girl's connection with the French
adventurer, whom he had again recognised. That story
cannot be told here ; it would be too shocking for a society
that hushes up revolting truths, and bases its moral security .
on the existence of an evil which philosophers contemplate
with tranquillitj', and men of the world with pleasant
cynigism. Not even in the pages of a fiction with a pur-,
pose can an English writer print the record of what is at
the best an accursed human sacrifice, a trade to which the
slave trade was venial ; a social abomination which destroys
the body and too often obliterates the germinating soul.

I know well how, in discussing this question, philosophy
and sentimentalism are at issue ; how statistics have been
twisted to show that actual seduction is rare, and rarest
upon the man's side; how the majority of the lost live
happily, healthily, and long ; how their existence is a ne-
cessity of civilisation, the security of virtue, the protection
of the household, the safeguard of the morals of the State.
Well, I say with Sutherland, God 'help our civilisation if
this be so I So long as such a canker exists, so long aa
the moral holocaust continues, there is no hope for any
living woman, and the Kingdom of. Heaven upon earth,/
which poets have dreamed of, is whole eternities away. '^

184 MARTYBDOM OF MADELUSrE.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

AT THE COITNTESS AUEELIA'S.

Once or twice during the season it was the custom of the
Countess Aurelia Van Homrigh to give a literary party.
This party had at first been but a small social gathering,
invitations being issued only to a few of the most select of
the lady's literary and scientific friends, but every year the
invitations had grown more numerous, until the yearly
reunions became quite the mode, and each one was an
event to which the world of art, science, and letters looked
forward with delight. ■

The Countess was a pretty little Englishwoman, married
to a foreign adventurer, who had made an enormous for-
tune in certain obscure branches of trade. While yet a
maiden Miss Aurelia Blackeston was well known in sesthetic
circles as the writer of many charming volumes of verse,
and as the favoured lady to whom a certain great and titled
poet addressed the lines commencing

' Aurelia, pretty one, brightest of bines ! '

As a wife and a lady of title the same lady doubled
her social charms. Her husband, standing quietly in her
shadow, watched, her with morose adoration, whilst she
dispensed hospitality to all the lions of the land.

For Aurelia loved a lion, just as some people love a
lord. On each occasion there were new ones to be sought
out, secured and made much of, before the party could be
complete. In difficulties of this sort she generally appealed
to her old friend and admirer Serena, who, being full-
manned and leonine himself, was a good judge of the noble
animal in demand. Serena, we may remark en passant,
had painted the Countess in every attitude and from every
conceivable point of view ; as a Pythoness, as a ' Psyche
by the Waters of Love's Wanness,' as ' A Study in Rose
Pink,' as ' Vivien the Enchantress,' in which doleful com-
position the painter himself appeared as Merlin ; and most
of these portraits adorned the walls of the cerulean house
at Barnes, on the banks of the Thames.

MARTYRDOM OF MABELINE. 18B

One morning, early in the season, Madeline, sitting at
breakfast with her husband, received the Countess's invita-
tion ; accompanying it was a little note from Serena. ' I
hope you will come ; indeed, you must come,' wrote the
great man, ' since on this occasion the fair Aurelia's rooms
will be graced by the presence of a gentleman whom I
wish particularly to make known to you, a charming crea-
ture whose soul is redolent of music and divine song. He
comes to my rooms, he contemplates your picture by the
hour — he vows that so divine a creature cannot exist. I
wish to show him that she does exist, and that, in trying to
place it upon canvas, my poor hand has signally failed.'

Madeline read the letter with a smUe, then she handed
it to her husband.

' The Countess is not content with mere lions this
year,' she said. ' She evidently intends to make a lioness
of me. Shall we go ? '

' Yes, we had better go, my . dear,' returned Forster
quietly. ' Beneath all her humbug the Countess is an ex-
cellent person ; she would T)e really pained if we stayed
away.'

So without more ado — without more thought — the
Btep was taken which was to become the great turning
point in Madeline's life.

Breakfast over, Forster went to the City, while
Madeline wrote a little note accepting the lady's invitation ;
then put the whole matter from her mind, ordered her
carriage, • and an hour later was driving down Eegent
Street, with the little boy ■?^hc) was now her constant com-
panion.

The life into which Madeline had entered on her mar-
riage had proved so far to be a happy one. James Forster,
always kind and considerate, was devoted to his young
wife ; while Madeline tried to repay some of his kindness
to her by lavishing her affection on his child. ' He shall
never repent marrying me,' she said to herself a hundred
times a day. ' He alone knows I did not bring him
honour, but I will bring him happiness.' And she tried
to keep her word.

Meantime, the days flew past, and at length the mo-
mentous one arrived on which Mr. and Mrs. Forster were

186 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

to appear at the Countess's house at Barnes. Foniter went
to the City as usual, but promised to return early ; he
was detained, however, so that when he reached home he
found his wife already arrayed for the night. He looked
at her, then gently kissed her.

' Madeline, my dear,' he said, ' I never saw you look
more lovely ' : then he added quietly — ' Should you mind
very much, my love, if I stayed at home to-night ? '

' Stayed at home ? '

' Yes, I have had one of vaj nervous headaches all day,
and 1 don't feel equal to facing the Countess's crowded
rooms.'

' Then you shall remain at home, and I will remain
with you.'

' Not so, my love : you must go, and Margaret shall
accompany you.'

' But I would rather stay.'

' Nonsense, Madeline. If you talk like that I shall go,
and punish you for your perversity by being more than
usually disagreeable.'

So it was settled, the carriage was ordered, and Made-
line drove down to Barnes with Miss Forster by her
side.

The gathering, as we have said, was always numerous,
but this time it seemed of greater importance than ever.
The street on the river side was so blocked with carriages
that some time elapsed before Forster's brougham could
pull up at the door, and when at length it did, and the
ladies passed over the carpeted pavement into the hall,
they found themselves in so dense a throng that it was with
difficulty they made their way along at all. At length,
however, they reached the top of the crowded staircase, at
the door of a crowded room. Here Madeline paused ; her
eyes, lately accustomed to the darkness, were dazzled by
the brilliant glare of light which met them, so that at first
she could find out nothing very distinctly ; in a moment,
however, the feeling of confusion passed away, and with
one swift glance she took in the scene.

In a suite of lofty rooms running from one to another,
like a picture gallery, and almost as thickly covered with
works of art, were ladies and gentlemen of all shapes and

MARTYMDOM OF MADELINE. 187

ages, the majority of the ladies clad in what is now known
as the sesthetic, or high-waisted, style, and the greater
number of the gentlemen resembling one another in a
certain limp and flaccid self-consciousness of attitude.
Scattered here and there, as a sort of leaven, were swarthy
artists, with beards, spectacled savants and scientists, stout
literary ladies, and acidulous lady members of the London
School Board. It was, indeed, a scene too familiar to need
much describing. The chatter was deafening, reminding
an irreverent spectator of the noise in the monkey-house
at the Zoological Gardens.

While Madeline and Miss i'orster stood hesitating
within the threshold of the room, they were espied from a
distance by Serena, who immediately made his way over
to them, and forthwith, in the manner of one having
authority, led them to the lady of the house. •

The Countess, who was shining resplendent in a dress
composed entirely of Indian shawls folded tight round her
lissome figure, welcomed Madeline with effusion, and gave
the tip of her fingers to Miss Forster ; then after a little
desultory prattle, she introduced Madeline to a limp gentle-
man standing near, and floated away to another part of the
room.

'A charming creature the Countess,' said the limp
gentleman. ' So far above the vulgar prejudices of our too
crowded civilisation, with no creed but Beauty, and no
God but Art.'

' Yes,' murmured Madeline, scarcely attending, as she
gazed rather vacantly round the room.

' Have you seen Botticelli Jones's picture of her lady-
ship as " A Lily of Languor in the Garden of Proserpine" ?
No ? Well, Ponto says it is the most superbly sane and
cosmic thing '

He was interrupted by a cry from Madeline, who,
leaving his side without a word of apology, crossed the
room rapidly, and approached a grim-looking person with
a light beard, clad in a very shabby dress suit and rather
disr^utable boots.

This was no other person than Jack Bingham, an artist
by profession, of the old ' pipe and beer ' school, and a
bosom friend of Marmaduke White.

188 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

' What, Jack 1 ' she cried, holding out both her hands.

Everybody called him Jack.

As she spoke the grim face relaxed into a smile.

' What, is it you ? ' returned Jack, with a delighted
laugh.

' Yes, and I am so glad to see you. But who would
have thought of meeting you here, of all the places in the
world? Dear, dear Jack, the very sight of you calls up
old times.'.

And tears stood in her eyes as she gazed upon his
homely face. Jack was affected too in his rough way, so
he made a diversion.

' Beastly slow, isn't it ? ' he said. ' There doesn't
seem to be a smoke room, and none of the fellows are my
sort.'

' Why haven't you come to see me ? ' asked Madeline,
nodding.

' Since your marriage ? '

•Yes."

' Well, I don't know — you didn't ask me — and your
husband's a swell.'

' He's nothing of the sort. Jack, and as to not being
asked, you ought to have known my house was open to
every friend of my dear guardian. You might smoke in
the drawing-room if you liked, and no one would object.'

Jack laughed. "i

' I'm not quite such a beast as that ; but there, I'U
come since you wish it, and have a talk about old times.'

At this point they were interrupted by Blanco Serena.

' Mrs. Forster,' said he, ' permit me ; I wish to make
two clever people known to each other.'

Madeline placed, her hand on Serena's proffered arm,
and with a smile and a nod to Bingham moved a few steps
away. Presently she paused and looked up into her com-
panion's face.

' Mr, Serena,' she said, ' who is the person ? Nobody
very clever, I hope ; I am so afraid of very clever people.'

' I am going, my dear Imogen, to introduce you to one
who, if the " Megatherium " is to be trusted, is one of the
greatest minds of the age. A man who is all spirit, whose
soul is a combination of music and song, whose '

MARTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 189

' Dear me,' broke in Madeline, ' he must be a dreadful
person. Suppose you point him out to me before we meet
him, in case I get quite overcome.'

Serena gazed round the room. The crowd was so
great he could not at first find the individual he sought,
and with Madeline's hand still upon his arm he moved a
few more steps forward. Suddenly he paused again, gazed
across the room, and Madeline, following the gaze with her
eyes, beheld a form the first sight of which chiUed her to
the soul.

The room was long and vast, and the fiirther end of it
curved off into a kind of alcove, which at this moment was
filled with an admiring group, such as Du Maurier loves
to draw — aesthetic ladies, for the most part tall and limp,
and lean gentlemen, crowded together, who stood gazing in
rapt admiration upon a figure who stood in their midst. It
was upon this figure that Madeline's eyes had fallen. In
this wonderful creatuH, this new lion of the night, she
recognised, with a sickening shock of surprise, none other
than her old friend and tormentor, Eelleisle !

For a moment all power of speech deserted her, the
room, the crowds, melted away — she stood as if alone,
gazing upon the figure of a man in overwhelming fear —
all the blood had deserted her cheeks, the hand which lay
upon her companion's arm was cold and death-like.

She was recalled to herself by the sound of Serena's voice.

' Mrs. Forster,' he said, ' will you come on now — may
I be permitted the honour of presenting you to my friend
Gavrolles ? '

But Madeline neither moved nor spoke. Her com-
panion turned towards her, and noticed the ghastly hue of
her face.

' Good heavens ! ' he exclaimed. ' What has happened ?
My dear Mrs. Forster, let me trust you are not ill ? '

Madeline clutched nervously at his arm.

' Hush, not so loud,' she whispered ; then forcing a
faint smile to her bloodless lips, she murmured, ' I am not
fading well, Mr. Serena, but indeed there is no cause for
alarm. The rooms are hot, you see, and I have grown a
little faint. Pray let me sit for a moment, but take no
further notice of this, I beseech you.'

190 martyhdom of Madeline.

Utterly bewildered as to what it all meant, but feeling
instinctively that something wrong had happened, Serena
did as he was requested. He led Madeline to an ottoman ;
she sank down on it with a sigh,

' Now let me fetch you a glass of wine, or something to
take away the faintness,' he said anxiously ; and Madeline
bowed her head in silent acquiescence.

The moment he had gone she turned her weary, be-
wildered eyes upon the gay crowd surrounding her, and
gazed again with a sickening sense of shrinking fear to-
wards the spot where the man had stood.

Had her eyes deceived her, had it been some hideous
vision conjured up to cast a black shadow upon the happi-
ness which was hers at last ?' Madeline turned her eyes,
hoping, half believing this might be so ; but one look gave
the death-blow to all her hopes, and made her terror more
terrible than it had been before.

Yes, there he stood, the man ^ho had blighted her
young life, who had dragged her into the mud, from which,
in spite of him, she had arisen. He was changed, certainly,
but what changes could disguise him ? His hair, once
short, was now long and luxuriant, he was clothed in gar-
ments of the newest cut, he was talking rapidly, twisting
his body into various contortions, for the benefit of the
small crowd about him. There was no mistaking those
pitiless eyes, that cruel mouth. Yes, it was Belleisle, the
man who had cheated her into becoming his mistress, who
had made her the decoy of a gambling hell, who had
dragged her into the very depths of dishonour and pollution.

She sat for a time concealing her face with her fan, but
gazing upon him in a wild fascination ; then a terror seized
her that the dreadful figure might approach and she would
be recognised. The mere possibility sent a cold thrill
through all her frame, and she realised for the first time all
the evil which one word from the man's lips could bring
upon her head. Serena returned with a glass of wine and
a biscuit. She sipped the wine, but put the biscuit from
her. Then she turned her white face towards Serena, and
whispered eagerly —

' Mr. Serena, I must go home ! '

♦ Go home ! My dear Mrs. Forster, the evening has

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 191

hardly begun. We cannot lose one of our brightest orna-
ments — besides, I have yet to introduce you to '

' Hush,' interrupted Madeline, eagerly, ' do, pray, let
me go. Take me downstairs, I can bear this place no
longer. I will wait in the hall for the carriage, and you
can bring Miss Forster to me.'

So saying, and without giving Serena time to reply,
she rose, took his arm, and drew him out of the crowded
room, down the stairs. Once clear of the room she seemed
to breathe more freely, but her cheek still retained its
ashen grey hue, and the hand which rested upon his arm
trembled violently. He led her to the hall, wrapped her
cloak about her, and ordered her carriage; then, at her
request, he returned to the room to fetch Miss Forster.

It was yet early, carriages continued to drive up to the
door, and new streams of people made their way into the
dwelling, but in the confusion no one noticed Madeline.
She had withdrawn into the shadow, and stood now tremu-
lous with excitement and eager to be gone, and inwardly
thanking God that she had escaped the Frenchman's eye.

Suddenly -she felt herself lightly touched upon the arm.
She turned quickly, and found herself face to face with the
very man she feared !

Instantly she shrank away, and a quick cry of pain
escaped her lips. She put her hand to her head in a wild
bewildered fear, and stared stupidly at her foe.

The Frenchman was by no means disconcerted. He
bowed politely before her, asked in an audible voice if he
could be of any service to her, but whispered low

' I must see you alone to-morrow. Name a place where
we shall meet 1 '

Madeline did not utter a cry this time, but she shrank
farther and farther away. Then she raised her head and
looked straight into the Frenchman's eyes. For a moment
she had been seized with a mad idea tp disown any know-
ledge of him — that one look into his eyes convinced her
that the device was hopeless.

''Name a time and place,' he repeated. Madeline knew
that to refuse was impossible — so she said hurriedly —

'Albert Memorial to-morrow morning at 11.' Then
Bhe gazed like a frightened child about her, and saw with

192 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

dismay that Miss Forster stood close at hand. Had she
heard or seen ? Madeline could not tell, for the lady's face
betrayed nothing. She came quickly forward, and said, in
her cold, iinsympathetic voice —

' What is the matter, Madeline ? '

Madeline's face, which had lately been so pale, suddenly
became crimson.

She stammered out that nothing was the matter.

' Mr. Serena told me that you had been ill.'

* I did not feel well,' returned Madeline, regaining some
of her self-command, ' and I should like to go home — but,
dear Miss Forster, if you will permit me I will go alone.
It seems a pity to take you away so soon.'

The Iflay replied, coldly —

• I have no wish to stay. I came because my brother
wished me to come ; that was all.'

By this time Serena, who had been busy hurrying up
the carriage, came to announce that it was ready, to offer
his arm to the ladies, and once more to express his deep
grief at Madeline's untimely departure. Madeline took his
arm in silence. As she moved away, she turned and
gazed uneasily around her.

The Frenchman was nowhere to be seen.

The drive home was made in profound silence. Miss
Forster sat in stately reticence and gazed from the carriage
window at the flashing lamps of the street, while Madeline
threw herself into her corner, closed her weary eyes, and
tried to persuade herself that the event of the last hour had
been but a dream. She was a little bewildered as yet, and
unable to realise all that the man's presence might mean.
To her as yet he had only recalled the horror of her past
life ; he had cast no actual shadow over her home.

When the carriage was pulled up at the door and she
stepped out, she felt herself shivering from head to foot,
though in reality her hands and lips were burning. When
she pleaded illness as the cause of her early return, Forster
readily believed her, and while folding her in his arms he
blamed his own folly for allowing her to go forth at all
that night. Was it his fanay, or did Madeline really
shrink from his embrace ; yes, shrink from it, as she had
never done before ? He turned anxiously towards her, he

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 198

noticed that lier cbeek was flushed, and that a strange light
shone in her eyes ; but he saw no mystery there.

Having satisfactorily explained her return, Madeline
went at once to her room, where she found her maid
awaiting her. The girl assisted her mistress to remove her
dress ; to take down her hair, and put on her dressing
gown ; then she was summarily dismissed for the night,
and Madeline, after locking her door, sat down to think
what it would be best for her to do.

What had she done 7 Nothing as yst. She had let the
man see that she feared him, certainly, but then he needed
no sign from her to assure him of that. She had, more-
over, in her desperation and fear of exposure, made an
assignation with him. But then that assignation need
never be kept. There was one way open to her — one
open, honest course ; but she shrank from it appalled. Her
heart counselled thus — ' Go to your husband, tell him
all, and throw yourself upon his sympathy ; ' but her
courage failed her, she shrank back like a contaminated
guilty thing.

' Go to him, look in his eyes, and say to him — " I have
Been to-night the man who made me his mistress ; with
one word he can bring disgrace upon me, and you" '

No, she could not do it. Whatever her husband had
heard of her past she hoped by this time he had forgotten.
In Forster's sight, at least, she would not be degraded ;
come what might, she would fight her battle alone.

CHAPTER XXIX.

GAVEOLLES.

When Madeline came down to breakfast nest morning she
looked very ill. There was a wild light in her eyes and a
feverish flush upon her face. Quite unsuspicious of the
real cause of the change in her, Forster attributed it to the
indisposition of the night before, and began to wonder if
the sudden change in her habits was going to tell upon her
health.

It certainly was a great change to be transported from

194 MAUTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

the wild excitement of public life to the monotonous ex.
istence of a quiet house like his ; but when he had asked
her to give up the stage, he had thought he was lifting
from her shoulders a load of which she would gladly be
free. He had wished his wife to take her ease and enjoy
her days, not to toil wearily as if for her daily bread. But
now he began to think that he had been totally wrong.
While he had been working away with unconscious happi.
ness in the City, his beautiful wild bird had been beating
her breast against the bars of her gilded cage, and pining
for that freedom which to all gifted beings is so dear.
These thoughts and many more of the same strain passed
through Forster's mind, while he made his way to the
City. Long before he reached his office he had decided
how to act.

' I will speak to Madeline to-night,' he said to himself,
' and hear her views. Something must be done to make
her contented.'

Meanwhile Madeline, left with Miss Forster, walked
about the room in new restlessness. She looked out of the
window ; it was a damp, dark day ; she looked at her
watch, it was past ten o'clock. In an hour she had pro-
mised to meet the man, and by this time she had settled in
her mind that she must go.

What he could want with her she could not tell, and
she had not paused to inquire. That he meant her no
good she knew, but it was useless to anticipate the evil,
till she knew its nature.

She went upstairs with a heavy heart, and returned,
greatly to Miss Forster's surprise, in walking costume.

The little boy, confident of his reception, came boimd-
ing in and clung affectionately to her skirts. She kissed
him fondly, but told him he could not go with her that
morning.

' Not at all ? May I not go a little way, mamma? '

' Not even a little way, darling ; I must go alone to-day.'

There was such a strange ring in her voice that Miss
Forster looked up in some amazement, while the child
clung closer to Madeline, and ardently kissed the cold,
pale cheek.

' Mamma is going to see a doctor,' he said ; ' is it net so,
mamma ? '

MAUTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 195

No, dear.'

' Then where are you going alone, on such a cold wet
day?'

Madeline flushed uneasily, and impatiently put the
child from her.

' You should not ask so many questions,' she said ;
' it is rude ! ' Then, noting . the little crestfallen face, she
hurriedly caught him up again and kissed him, while her
own eyes filled with tears.

' Hush, do not mind, I was wrong ; but I did not mean
to pain you, darling — no, no— not you ! '

During the enacting of this scene Miss Forster liad still
remained in the room. Up to this moment she had said
nothing; but her eyes had followed all her sister-in-law's
movements, and watched her face with peculiar interest.
When Madeline had put down the boy, and was about to
leave the room, she .spoke.

' The carriage has not come round,' she said.

Madeline started, and turned. She had ignored the
presence of her sister-in-law ; and that lady noticed that
the sudden recollection of it brought another uncomfortable
flush to the pale cheek, and caused another anxious look
about the room.

' I — I have not ordered the carriage,' she said.

'Indeed?'

No question had been asked, therefore Madeline was
not bound to reply ; but feeling that she must say some-
thing, she stammered rather awkwardly — ■

' I am going to walk. I prefer it to-day, as my head
is bad, but I shall not be long away.' Then, as if in
dread of further questioning, she hurried from the room.

It was certainly a most inclement morning, but Made-
line, being suitably clad, did not heed the weather. After
walking a short distance, she hailed a passing hansom
and drove to the park gate, close to the Albert Memorial ;
here she alighted, and crossing to the footpath sank wearily
upon one of the seats to watch for the Frenchman's
arrival.

She had not sat long when she saw him.
'Previous to her coming, GavroUes, as we must con-
tinue to caU him, had been parading theatrically round
o2

196 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE,

the memorial for a quarter of an hour, to the great ad-
miration of several idle nursemaids. He did not at first
see Madeline. He was smoking a cigar, glancing with
careless interest at the somewhat tawdry designs, and keep-
ing a cat-like eye "on the figures which were moving about
the park.

Another turn round the monument ; then his eye fell
upon Madeline, who still retained her seat close by. In a
moment the whole man seemed to change. He smiled,
tossed away his cigar, and advanced gallantly towards her.
He raised his hat, then cordially extended his right hand.

' Good morning,' he exclaimed in French ; ' charmed
to see you abroad so early ! May I so far presume upon
your friendship as to walk with you a very little way
around the park ? '

Madeline rose in silence, took no notice of his extended
hand, and walked along by his side. She looked cold,
haughty, and defiant ; but in truth her heart was sinking
terribly. As for Gavrolles, if he was a little disconcerted
at first, he quickly regained his composure. As he drew
back his rejected hand he smiled, and the smile seemed to
say : 'It is your turn now, Madame ! Eh hien, enjoy
your pride to the full ; my time is at hand, and I mean to
take advantage of it.'

' Farbleu,' he exclaimed, ' how the place is deserted ;
and yet to my mind the morning is the pleasantest time of
the day. See how fresh the flowers and the grass ! — and
the breeze is still sweet and cool with last night's dew ! It
seems to bring new life to a man. Ah, yes ; it is charm-
ing ! '

He expanded his chest, he raised his hat to let the
breeze play with his flowing locks of hair, then he gave a
sidelong glance at Madeline, and met her eyes. She
paused, and for the first time that day addressed him —

'I cannot stay,' she said quietly. 'Why have you
forced me to meet you here to-day ? '

He shrugged his shoulders, he raised his hand in polite
protestation.

' Forced you 1 ' he exclaimed. ' Ah, but. you use hard
words, my dear Madeline. I employ force to no one ;
lertainly not to one so esteemed. If your memory ia

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 19?

good, you must know that I merely asked an interview.
You were gracious enough not only to grant it, but to
name also our place of meeting.'

She looked him steadily in the face, and her lip curled
contemptuously.

' Will you oblige me by answering my question ? '

Again he smiled, but while he did so his face was by
no means pleasant to see.

' I will make my best endeavours, madame.'

' First, tell me this : when you went to that house last
night were you certain of meeting me there ? '

' I most certainly hoped to have the pleasure of meeting
you. I have lived in this strange world long enough to
know that nothing is certain.'

' Did you know that I had married an honourable
man ? '

' I knew that ; yes.'

' And yet you made up your mind to thrust yourself
upon me ? '

He bowed profoundly. ' My dear Madeline, your
penetration is wonderlul. I perceive you are one of the
few beings in this stupid world fully capable of under-
standing me.'

' Unfortimately for myself,' Madeline continued, ' I
understand you sufficiently to know that you would not
plan this meeting if there was no purpose to be obtained
by it. What new injury do you wish to do me now ? '

He gazed at her flushed face and muttered, ' Ma foi,
but she is charming 1 ' Then he added, aloud —

' I merely wished to tell you, Madeline, something that
you do not know.'

* And that is '

' Only this — that although you have married an
honourable man, as you say, you are nevertheless still my
v/ife.'

198 MAUTYIWOM OF MADELINE.

CHAPTEE XXX.

IN THE TOILS.

He spoko quietly enough, but she recoiled a3 if he had
struck her.

' Your Tfife ! ' she exclaimed. ' Your wife, monsieur ! '

A dark look passed over the Frenchman's face. He
bowed profoundly.

' It is an honour -which has been coveted by many,
madame,' he returned, ' to be the wife of your humble
serviteur ; but I am proud to say it has been reserved for
one who is truly worthy of it. Yes, Madeline, I will own
it — at one time I thought the position too elevated for you;
but when I saw you nobly rising to fame, I said to myself,
" After all, I was wrong. She is a splendid creature ; she
will adorn our world of Art ; at the right moment I will
reveal the truth, and claim her " — and so, my dear Made-
line, I claim you now ! '

He smiled, he held forth his hand; but Madeline
recoiled again.

' Do not touch me,' she cried wildly.

He shrugged his shoulders.

' Eh Men — I have no wish to touch you, chere amie—
but if you play the tragedy queen in the park you will
gather a crowd about you, and that would not be pleasant
for J/OM,'

He spoke with quiet malignity ; nevertheless Madeline
knew that he spoke truly. She was utterly in his power,
and for her own sake she dared not make a scene ; what-
. ever she said must be said quietly for fear of attracting
attention. She cast a fearful glance around her, then, pale
and trembling with disgust and shame, she turned again to
the Frenchman.

' This is another of your falsehoods. Why have you
chosen to tell me it to-day ? '

' Mon Dieu ! what a question ! I do not choose to tell
you a story. I came to claim my wife.'

' It is false. I am not your wife.'

' No ? Then this little writing lies.'

MAnTYBDOM OF MADELINE. 101

As he spoke he drew forth a paper and waved it care-
lessly in the air.

' Ah, my dear Madeline, there was once a time when
you would joyfully have received the news I bring you
to-day. You did not always scorn the thought of being
madame my lady 1 '

' You are right, monsieur,' answered Madeline. ' There
was once a time when the news which you bring me to-
day would have been welcome to me, but thank God that
time has gone, and I am changed ! '

' Yes,' he returned quietly, ' you are changed, as you
say ; so also am I. At that period of my career to which
you allude I was not perfect, and, pardon me for saying so,
Madeline, neither were you. I confess with all humility
tliat I told lies, and we both showed temper, but — nous
avons change tout cela ! I come to-day to tell you the
truth, and to oiFer you your rightful home.'

Again he moved as if to approach her. Again she
shrank away.

' It is not the truth,' she returned vehemently ; ' I refuse
to believe you ! You told me the truth once, but you are
lying to me to-day 1 '

Again his face darkened^ but when he spoke his voice
was as sweet as it had been before.

' Your judgment is harsh,. cMrie, but I have without
doubt deserved it — that being' so, I bear it with patience.
I say to you that I lied to you before ; therefore I must
not expect you to believe me now. Before I could not
prove the truth of my statement, but that is all changed at
last ! '

Again he produced his slip of paper ; this time he
held it out before Madeline's eyes. In a dazed, troubled
way she looked at it. She saw at a glance tha.t it was the
certificate, real or forged, of the marriage between Auguste
Belleisle and Madeline Hazelmere. Therefore she com-
pletely lost her self-control, and did what, under the cir-
cumstances, it was most injudicious that she should do —
she allowed the Frenchman to see that she was afraid.

' I will not — I cannot — ^believe it,' she cried. ' If it is
eo, why did you tell me that wicked falsehood, when I did
not know you well enough to doubt your word ? '

200 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

' I will tell you, dearest. "When I induced you to fly
■with me from the school I was poor— miserably poor, and
I believed I was eloping with a lady who would become
possessed of a fortune when she was of age. Ah ! forgive
me, but I was wicked, corrupt ! Then I said to myself,
" She is a charming girl ; she will become the victim of
fortune-hunters; she evidently adores me, and I care for
her ; the fortune must be mine ! " Afterwards you re-
pented of your mad folly. I knew you did so too late —
in spite of your wishes I married you. Shortly after our
marriage you yourself informed me, cherie, that you were
poor. I felt that I had been befooled, and I grew enraged.
Still, as I could not easily rid myself of my wife, I resolved
to make her useful. I did so. Tou fell into my plana
until you discovered them ; then you showed temper, and
threatened to become dangerous. I wondered for a second
time what I should do with you. I determined to try a
bold stroke, and succeed or fail. I succeeded. I told you
a lie, mon ange, and in your charming innocence you
believed it to be the truth. You asked for no proofs,
which was lucky for me, since I could produce none. Tou
believed that you had been my mistress. I knew that you
were bound to me by a nearer and a dearer tie.'

He paused and looked at her. Her face was ghastly,
her eyes wildly fixed ; she shivered through all her frame.

' Madame, you are not well.'

Again she shrank away. He smiled and nodded.

' Mon ange, I know I have done wrong, but you must
forget and forgive. I came to make amends. Since
those days of which I have spoken I also have changed.
I am no longer a penniless, nameless Frenchman. I have
risen to a position which henceforth I hope to adorn. The
divine Muse has entered into my soul.. Art is now my
adored mistress; the great men and women of the land
are pleased, so to speak, to prostrate themselves before me.
I offer you a position which thousands would give their
lives to fill. Bien ! I care nothing for them. I accept
their adulation, but I am willing to place you beside me
and say to the world, " This charming creature is my
wife!"'

What wonderful BeH-saorifice 1 — what con4escension J

MARTYRDOM OF MABELINK 201

lie stood as if expecting her to fall in ecstasy at his feet.
She simply stared at him in dumb amazement, till, dis-
gusted at her silence, GavroUes, who had all his wita
about him, spoke again.

' Mon Dieu, but am I not generous ! ' he said. ' I say
to you, " Come to me, ray wife ; " while you think, " Alas !
it is too late. I have taken to myself another husband."
Well, that shall make no diiEerence to me. I take the blame
of that, since it was I who deceived you. Yes, mon ange,
I forgive you from my soul ! '

She looked at him in deepening horror, while she said
in a hollow voice —

' What of my husband, monsieur ? '

' Parhleu, I had no thought of him. What is he ? — a
common tradesman, I believe ; a dull creature, incapable
of comprehending the splendours of a nature like mine ;
there is no poetry in his soul. He adds up his accounts
now ; he wiU add them up when you are gone — that
b alll '

Madeline's face grew even whiter, but her eyes flashed
fire.

' Take care,' she cried, 'take care. Say what you like
of me, do what you can to me, but don't dare to put a
slight on Mm.'

It was now the Frenchman's turn to be astonished. For
a moment the lackadaisical look of condescension passed
completely from his eyes.

' What do you mean ? ' he asked sharply.

' Only this, monsieur, that the gentleman whom you are
pleased to denounce as commonplace is as far above you as
the sun is above the earth. That after you had tried to
destroy me it was he who nobly put out his hand to save
me. That sooner than let you bring disgrace and sorrow
to him I will make a sacrifice of myself, perhaps of you ! '

' Parhleu, but you are heroic,' sneered the Frenchman.

' What I am,' continued Madeline, ' I am ; thanks to
you, and you only. I have been dragged as low almost as
the women who nightly walk the streets. Now you come
to me and ask me to return to shame and degradation.
Your wife I may be, as you say, but sooner than return
to jrou and live with you — io honourable wedlock, as the

202 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

world would call it — I would destroy myself. ... 1
expect no mercy from you. Well, you may do youijworst—
what that may be I neither know nor care.'

And before the Frenchman could utter a word she
turned from him and walked swiftly away.

He did not attempt to follow her. This sudden and
unexpected onslaught of his victim had found him quite
unprepared, and he gazed after her with eyes full of per-
plexity and amazement. Then he, too, turned and walked
away. He strolled slowly through the park in the direc-
tion of the Serpentine ; having reached it, he paused on
one of the bridges, leant over the parapet, and watched
the swans. He felt in his pocket, threw them some broken
biscuits, and watched them eat.

While so watching, he soliloquised. ' As I suspected,'
he murmured, ' she still possesses a spirit and a temper — .
eh bien, it is for me to manage both. If this little piece
of paper (touching the certificate) were genuine, if that
spirited creature were indeed my wife, I should find my
work easy. The law would give her to me, and there
would be an end to the whole matter. I would place her
again upon the stage ; she would make me a rich man,
while 1 could pursue my dream, mount rapidly up the
ladder of fame, become the idol of mankind, and make
my name immortal. But, alas ! that cannot be. The
charming creature detests me, and means to resist me. I
dare not appeal to the law, for it would require more
proofs of my sagacity than my charming Madeline does.
Parbleu t what must I do now 1 '

He ran his thin fingers through his long hair ; he gazed
again meditatively at the- water; he threw some more
biscuits to the swans. Suddenly the perplexed look passed
away from his face, which lit up into positive ecstasy.

' The husband ! ' he cried. ' Mon Dieu ! but she adores
the husband even more cordially than she detests me. Let
me think of him ; let my plans involve him, and my
BU3cess is tolerably sure.'

MARTTRBOM OF MABJELINE. 203

CHAPTER XXXI.

IN THE now.

While Gavrolles, in a grotesque attitude, was soliloquising
and feeding the swans, Madeline was walking along the
pavement of the principal street in Knightsbridge. Her
eyes rested upon the gaily decked shop windows and the
busy crowd about her, but her thoughts were still with
the man whom she had just left. Already die repented of
her madness in having defied him. Once or twice she
paused with the intention of returning to him and asking
for pity, but her resolutions were no sooner made than
conquered ; to expect mercy from that man was like look-
ing for water to flow from a stone.

She paused and looked blankly in at a shop window ;
as she did so she felt herself touched lightly and timidly
on the arm ; and on looking down she found that she had
been accosted by a flower girl ; a pale, little creature, clad
in miserable rags, with a face pinched and pallid from
starvation, who timidly held forth a bunch of half- withered
violets. Madeline looked down, and her eyes filled with
tears ; not with sorrow for the child — they were tears of
self-pity — for as she pressed some silver into the child's
hand, she thought, ' What would I give to change places
with you to-day ? '

Thus recalled to herself, she looked at her watch. It
was one o'clock ; at two she knew that Miss Forster would
expect her to preside at the luncheon table. She deter-
mined to hurry home, in order to have a few minutes to
compose herself before she was compelled to meet her
sister-in-law. She called a hansom, and ordered the man
to drive to her house. She stopped him at the street
corner, however, and finished her journey on foot.

To her intense relief she was able to gain her room
without encountering the lady whose presence seemed to
inspire her with so much dread. Having reached the
room she shut herself in, sank down on an ottoman, and
stared despairingly before her.

' His wife I ' Could it be that he had spoken truly,

204 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE,

that she was really bound by the sacred tie to the man
who had done his best to ruin her ? Could it be that she
had brought shame and dipgrace on the man who had been
noble enough to shut out the past and to cleanse and
purify her with his unstained name ? ' BIy God,' she
murmured, ' I think I am accursed. I am like a leper — a
vile, unclean thing which contaminates all it touches. I
did sin, in a wild, impulsive, girlish way, but why should
that sin for ever drag me down ? I have repented — I
have tried to atone — but tor me there seems no mercy.'

Then came the question, What must she do ? Ketum
to Monsieur Belleisle, whom the world would doubtless
call her lawful husband ? Live with him in degradation
as great as any she had yet been made to bear ?

' No ! ' she cried. ' I would sooner, as I said to him,
destroy my miserable life ! '

A gentle tap at the door aroused her. She opened it
and admitted her little step-son. It was a custom of the
child to call at Madeline's room, and if he foimd her go
down with her to lunch. He bounded in in his usual
light-hearted way, but on seeing her face his hilarity
received a check. He took her hand and kissed it, he
looked up wistfully into her eyes —

' Mamma's headache is no better,' he said quietly.

' Why do you think that, darling ? '

' Why 7 — because you are so white— and because your
eyes are all -wet. Why have you been crying, mamma ;
what is there to make you cry ? '

' Ah, what indeed ? ' echoed Madeline, seizing up the
child and clasping him passionately in her arms. ' But,
remember, my pet, I spoke roughly to you this morning —
I have been away from you for hours ; perhaps I thought
you would not be glad to see me back again.'

' Ah, no 1 you would not think that,' he said, pressing
his rosy cheek against her cold, pale face. ' What would
papa do 7 What should we all do if mamma went
away 7 '

She shuddered, but held the child closely to her as she
descended to the dining-room.

The meal was got through in oppressive silence. To
be sure, the presence of the servanta acted as a barrier to

MARTYRDOM Oi' MADELINE. 208

finything like conversation; but every one felt on this
occasion that there was something more. Even the child
and the very servants seemed oppressed by that in-
describable gloom which all felt but none could understand.
The luncheon over, Madeline rose with a sigh of infinite
relief, and ordered the carriage.

The rain had ceased to fall, but the sky still looked
threatening, and the drive did not prove to be a pleasant
one. Still it seemed to Madeline that anything would be
better than sitting in the house all the afternoon tormented
by her own wretched thoughts. Presently, however, as
she was putting on her hat, the thought occurred to her
that it might be well for her to seek another interview
with Belleisle. When, therefore, she descended the stairs
she merely kissed the child, who was standing half
expecting to be invited to go, and entered the carriage
alone.

She drove straight to Regent Street, made one or two
trifling purchases, then she ordered her coachman to take
a few turns round the park.

The season was rapidly drawing to a close ; many
families had already betaken themselves to the country,
and most of those who lingered were busily preparing to
go. Still, in spite of this, there were still enough people
left to make a tolerable show in the Eow, and Madeline
had not been ten minutes in the drive before she was
greeted with many gracious smiles and bows.

Suddenly, however, her heart gave a great throb, then
seemed to stand still, for her eyes rested upon the very
form she sought. Could it be possible ? Yes, there he
was on horseback, on a sorry hack sicklied o'er with the
shade of the livery stable, and accompanied by two young
ladies in green riding-habits and hats composed of pea-
cocks' feathers. The three horses were walking, and the
three riders seemed heedless of everything but each
other.

The great and cosmic creature was holding forth,
while the two girls were gazing upon him in rapt de-
votion.

Madeline felt her cheek grow crimson, for it seemed to
kcr as if every soul about her suddenly read he.r secret.

206 MARTYRDOM OP MADELINE.

She bent forward to speak to her coachman, and met the
Frenchman's eye ; his face became suddenly irradiated, he
politely lifted his hat as the carriage passed him ; but she
felt-herself utterly unable to make any sign in return.

That day had passed wearily enough to James Forster.
From the moment he had entered the office he had been
able to think of nothing but his wife ; so great was his
anxiety and his eagerness to see her that he left business
two hours before his usual time, and hurried home. It
was not fair to her, he thought, that he should spend so
many hours of the day away from her side. He pictured
her at home, sitting disconsolately beside his lonely hearth.
When he reached the house, however, he was disen-
chanted. He went up to the drawing-room and found his
sister prim and neat as usual, working at some simple
embroider}' work, and keeping an eye upon the child, who
played at her feet. She looked surprised to see her
brother at such an early hour.

' Has anything happened, James ? ' she said.

He laughed a little impatiently.

' Why, Margaret, have I grown such a methodical old
fellow that you must imagine something has happened
merely because I come home a couple of hours before
dinner time? No, nothing has happened. I hurried
hoine because I wanted to have a talk with Madeline.
Where is she ? '

' Madeline is out.*

'Out?'

' Yes, she has been out all day.'

' Why, where has she gone to ? '

' Really, James, I am not Madeline's keeper. Since
she didn't choose to tell me I thought it was not my duty
to ask. I only know that she went out walking all the
morning, and that immediately after lunch she went out
driving. I have not seen her since.'

' Why, I thought when she went out she generally
took the boy ? '

' She has always taken him before, but she did not
want him to-day. She said it was necessary for her to go
alone.'

Miss Forster concluded with a significant ' Hem t '

MARTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 207

which spoke volumes. Forster made no reply ; he turned
away, went to his study, and sat there to await his wife's
return.

One hour, two hours passed. She did not come. The
first dinner bell rang — he rose to go to his room, and as
he was crossing the hall he heard his wife's knock at the
door.

' So late ! ' he murmured. ' Whe^e can she have been at
this hour ? '

Then he thought of his sister's peculiar manner when
she had spoken to him, and instead of waiting to see his
wife come in he went straight up to his room.

When he went down to dinner he found Madeline
already at the table. Her face was paler than it had been
on the preceding night, and there was the same strange,
wild light in her eyes. Was it his fancy again, or did she
really shrink from him when he put his arms around her
and kissed her cold cheek ? Why did she flush and look
uneasily about the room when he asked her innocently
enough what interesting appointment she could possibly
have to keep her out all day 7 There was certainly some-
thing the matter which he was faintly conscious of, but
which he could not possibly understand.

The dinner over, Forster rose and asked his wife to go
with him to his study. The request was a simple one,
but Madeline started, her face grew paler than before, and
a sickening sense of dread seized her heart. She filled a
glass of water and drank off its contents ; then with a
courage born only of despair she went with him.

CHAPTER XXXn.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

Foestee's study was the smallest room in the mansion,
furnished very plainly but cosily, and shut .oiF by two
baize-doors from the rest of the house. It contained, be-
sides the ordinaiy furniture, a few favourite pictures in
water-colour, and a small number of books, selected from
the shelves of the library. Here Forster spent many a

208 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

pleasant evening, following those studies in early English
poetry and literature ■which were his chief recreation.

The couple entered and seated themselves. Madeline
had her eyes fixed thoughtfully on the fire, but she was
fully conscious that her husband, leaning back in his
writing chair, had his eyes intently upon her face. What
could it mean 7 What was coming 7 She waited and
trembled.

* My dear Madeline,' he said at last, ' I have been think-
ing about you all day long. That, of course, is nothing
unusual, for I need not tell you that you are ever upper-
most in my thoughts ; but to-day I have been much
troubled on your account.'

She started and looked at him. What did he mean 7
His face was curiously grave, and in his eyes there was
the shadow of a great and wistful pain.

' I am sorry you have been troubled,' she said in a low
sad voice, ' and that I have been the cause.'

' Nay, my dear, it is no fault of yours ; but the truth
is I am very anxious. Sometimes of late — ^not always,
but sometimes — I have thought that you are a little disap-
pointed, a little weary. All my wish, all the dream of my

life, is to see you happy ; and yet ^

He paused, and passed his hand across his eyes ; for
tears were there.

' Do not think I am unhappy,' she replied. ' I am not.
I am happier than I deserve.'

' This is a dull house, I know,' continued Forster, as if
pursuing his own thoughts, ' and Margaret, I am afraid, a
somewhat dull companion. It is not at all the life which
you have been accustomed to, and I do not wonder that
you find it dull. Well, how shall we brighten it ? ' Here
his face was lit by a loving smile. ' How shall I make
my darling happy 7 I think I have discovered the way.
Indeed, if I had not been a commonplace fool, I might
have discovered it long before.'

Still more puzzled than ever, she kept her eyes fixed
upon his face; then seeing him smile so brightfy, so
kindly, she drew near to him and kissed him.
' Don't cry, my darling ! '
' I can't help it — ^you are so good to me 1 * „

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 209

' Not half so good as you deserve. Now listen — ^I have
Battled it. You shall return to the stage.'

She started in amazement.

' No, no ! '

' But yes ! Your divine gift shall not perish from want
of use ; you shall go back to the Art which you so love,
and I — I shall be by, to rejoice in your happiness and your
success.'

Instead of receiving the proposal with joy, as he had
anticipated, Madeline rose, trembling and very pale.

' Do not decide hastily,' said Porster, gently, ' but think
it well over.'

' It is quite unnenessary — ^I shall never act again ;
never ! never 1 '

' Madeline I '

' I have disgraced you enough already.'

' Disgraced me — God forbid ! Madeline, you are my
pride, my treasure — only honour can come to me through
you. Don't think 1 am such a Philistine as to underrate
your gifts, or the art you delight to follow. When I
persuaded you to adopt this quiet life, I thought it might
be better for your peace of mind, for your health. I see
that I was wrong. Genius like yours cannot be contented
with the mere humdrum of an English home. I was
selfish, dear. You shall be my Imogen again, and, as I
said, I will share your happy triumphs.'

' It is impossible,' cried Madeline, impetuously. ' I
hate the stage. Rather than return to it I would die.'

It was now Forster's turn to be amazed.

' Hate the stage ! ' he echoed. ' Ah, you do not mean
what you say.'

' But I do mean it. When I first acted it was for my
guardian's sake — to make him happy, anrl, perhaps, rich.
But I never loved the life, and now — I sicken at it. Oh,
James ! ' she continued, in deepening agitation, ' do not
think me foolish or ungrateful. I am quite, quite happy
here with you. Yes, when we are alone together, when
we are away from the world and all its feverish tumult, I
am more than happy — I am at peace. Don't think other-
wise. You ask me to go back into the world ; it is the
world that makes me miserable. If we should go away

Jf

210 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

together — far from London, far from the wicked city^-to
some green country place, -where none could know us, none
could care for us, then, I think, I should be at peace indeed.'

As she spoke, she threw herself into his arrns, for he
had risen aa if to implore her to be calm, and laid her
head upon his breast.

' Then you are not unhappy 7 '

' I don't know — I cannot tell 1 ' she sobbed. ' I think
it is my disposition — never quite contented, never restful.
When 1 wa^i a child, I was a trouble to those who loved
me ; and afterwards — afterwards everything seemed to go
wrong with me. But oh ! do not think that I am ungrate-
ful — that I do not love you as you deserve. I do ! I do I
I do!'

And as she clung to him sobbing, she repeated her
protestations again and again. He too was strongly
moved, and tried in vain to calm her.

' It is like you to reproach yourself,' he said tenderly.
' My loving, unselfish darling ! '

' Bat I am selfish,' she said. ' I am not good, like you,
James. It would have been better, far better, if we had
never met.'

' Don't say that, Madeline ! '

' I must say it. I bring sorrow to all that love me.'

' You have never brought sorrow to me. Only happi-
ness, my dear ! '

' If I could believe that ! But where another woman
would have been contented, I have been ill at ease. I hate
myself for it I I hate my life ! But oh I I love you I
You do not doubt it, dear ? '

' If I doubted it I should be a miserable man.'

' Whatever happened, you would still believe it.'

' Till my dying day. You have proved it,'

' Have I, James? '

' God knows you have. You are not like commoa
women — you are greater and better, and it is your very
aifection which makes you reproach yourself. But let us
speak again — calmly, seriously — of what I proposed. You
want occupation — you want play for your noble powers ;
here, darling, you are like a bird in a golden cage. Let me
persuade you to try your wings again, to end this dreaiy

MARTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 211

existence. I can easily arrange everything for your return
to the profession.'

She shook her head sadly.

' Never 1 never I '

'But why?'

' Have I not told you ? Because I .prefer to remain
alone with yois.'

He pressed her still, suspecting that her determination
was caused by solicitude on his account, or some secret
fear of compromising him ; but when he saw that she was
firm he was pleased. In the secresy of his own mind he
rather dreaded the step that he proposed ; lest that step, if
taken, might draw them further asunder, and in more than
one way lead to misconstruction. He was far too little of
a Philistine to despise the theatre, to undervalue a beauti-
ful and much-neglected art ; but he knew its decadence,
and understood its baser ambitions. He preferred to keep
the woman he loved to himself, to screen her from the
contamination of mercenary speculators and the coarse
admiration of the dregs of the public which unhappily
fill our theatres. The excitements of the stage, he thought,
were not beneficial to a nature so overwrought as that of
his wife ; its morale was not edifying, its literature not
spiritually ennobling, its successes were evanescent, its
rewards too often achieved by ignoble means. All this he
thought, yet did not say, for he honestly set his wife's per-
sonal happiness above all considerations of prejudice ; but
when he heard her emphatic determination, a weight was
taken from his mind.

So the interview ended, bringing the husband and wife
more closely and tenderly together, but still leaving on the
woman's heart the sense of a nameless dread, which she
dared not utter, and which he, of course, did not under-
stand.

CHAPTER XXXin.

OLD JOURNALISM — AND NEW.

Calling at Sutherland's rooms one morning, CriefE found

him surrounded by a number of unwieldy volumes,

F 2

212 MARTTRBOM OF MADELIXE.

dirty and dingy enough, to have been picked up, as indeed
they had been, in the uncleanest shop in Holywell Street.
One of these volumes he was examining with considerable
impatience when CrietF entered.

' What have you got there ? ' asked the journalist,
peeping over his shoulder. ' As I live, an old volume of
the " Satyrnine Review." '

' Yes. I saw the rubbish ticketed up very cheap, and
bought it. It is not a complete set, but sufficiently so for
my purpose.'

And he threw the volume down among its fellows.

' You'll find some spicy writing there,' said Crieff. ' A
little out of date now, of course, for the new society
journals have killed the " Satyrnine," but it used to be
deucedly clever.'

'Clever ! ' echoed Sutherland. 'During the whole of
last evening, and for hours this morning, I have been
searching these volumes in vain for one spark of insight,
for a ray of pure talent. They are simply trash, and spite-
ful trash, which is the worst of all.'

' Perhaps you expect too much, old fellow. The
" Satyrnine " only profepses to be smart.'

' I hate that word, though it expresses well enough the
journalism we speak of — the journalism of the " Satyr,""
who now wears fine clothes and calls himself a gentleman,
but is at the best a production of literature's slimy deposits
— a Faun, earth-grubbing, ugliness-loving, screeching
at the mysteries of artistic sunlight and moonlight. Even
your friend Lagardfere's style is better — it makes no
hideous pretences.'

' Come, I'm glad you see some merit in Lagardere, .
after all ! ' ,

' But this rubbish ' — here he touched the volume con-
temptuously with his foot — ' this rubbish, in its horrible
baseness and unintelligence, has not even the redeeming
quality of honesty. The writers are ignorant, but they
are also vicious ; uninstructed, but at the same time per-
tinacious. Who are these men? Does any one know
them ? I should be curious, for example, to see the goat-
footed animal who wrote this article'on Thackeray.'

'Well, you see,' answered Crieflf, reflectively, 'they
rather make a point of working in the dark, keeping up a

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 213

mystery, so to speak ; but nowadays, when the journal
has gone downhill, and spicier papers lilce the " Plain
Speaker " have practically killed it, the " Satymines " are
better known than' they used to be.'

' Are they persons of reputation ? '

' Well, no ; of course not.'

• Gentlemen ? '

' Some of them, perhaps,' said Crieff, with a smile ;
' but for the most part just like the rest of us — a mixed
breed. There's our friend Gass, whom you met at
Gavrolles'; Ms one. He has his finger in most journalistic
pies, and writes on all sides to turn an honest penny.'

' Humph 1 ' muttered Sutherland. ' I once had a
" Satjrrnine Reviewer " pointed out to me at a party. He
looked like a creature fresh from some large drapery,
establishment ; dressed within an inch of his life, with
pince-nez on nose, but goat-eared and goat-footed for all
that — I am sure the animal couldn't even spell. But
turning from the men to the matter, what I have been
most struck by in reading these wretched volumes is their
utter want of the positively human qualities — veracity,
reverence, generous aspiration. There is not a single public
man of any nobility, either in politics or literature, who ia
not persistently gibbered at and reviled. Our present
Liberal statesmen are insulted by the grossest jpersonalities.
Our great literary men are for the most part decried — ■
when they are praised the reason is not far to seek.
Thackeray, inspected by the Satyr, is "no gentleman." '
Dickens is an ignoramus. Browning is a dunce, ignorant
even of grammar. Worse than this is the vicious deter-
mination to ignore any kind of modest merit. In the
course of the long years over which these files extend,
many men, now distinguished, have arisen. In no single
instance has this representative journal been able to re-
cognise the coming genius, or willing to help the struggling
aspirant. The method has been to ignore new men as long
as possible ; then when ignorance could not be pleaded, to
interpose every possible impertinence of interpretation
between the men and the public; and finally, when they
have been crowned, to insult them with a monkey's
' See the ' Eoundabout Papers,' ]^aasim

214 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

gibbering interposition. For fatuousness, ignorance, and
dwarfish spitefulness — in a word, for all the old eartbliness
of the cloven foot — commend me to this "Satyrnine
Review.'"

f Never mind,' says the practised Crieff, cheerily.
'Nemesis has come — the "Satyrnine" is done for. The
curse of dulness is upon it. It once sold 20,000. The
other day, when it was in the market, it could hardly find
a purchaser. It lingers on with a country subscription
among retrograde old rectors and blue-buskin'd village
spinsters, but by-and-by the acidulous short paragraph
system will conquer even them.'

Thereupon Crieff, whose life was one of hard work and
bustling visits, was about to take his departure, when at
Sutherland's entreaty he promised to return for lunch ; for
Sutherland liked the little man, and found a curious fascina-
tion in his tittle-tattle concerning theworld of art and letters.

Later in the day the two lunched together. For a
wonder, it was an idle day with Crieff, and, once com-
fortably seated in an arm-chair, with a good cigar in his
mouth, he seemed determined to enjoy himself. The two
chatted pleasantly for some time; that is to say, the
journalist, who was garrulous by nature and habit, chatted,
and the other smoked, listened, and occasionally inter-
polated a remark.

Presently Crieff's face darkened, and, after looking
keenly, at his companion for a minute, he said, with a
certain indignation —

' I'm afraid I shall have to give up Lagardere, after all.
He's been at it again.'

' What do you mean ? '

' I'm almost afraid to tell you, old fellow, for fear of
arousing the slumbering lion. Yet I think it's only fair,
as I fancy you take an interest in the lady.'

' The lady ? '

' Yes. You remember the young actress who appeared
at the Parthenon this summer ? Ah, I see you do. Well,
of course you know that she retired into private life
—married Forster, the merchant, a rich man and a
thoroughly good fellow.'

' Yes, I heard of it, and — I was glad.'

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 213

' And so was I. She was too good for the stage. Well,
now, I'm afraid there's something unpleasant brewing.
Just read this ! '

As he spoke Crieff drew from his pocket several news.
papers, and handed one, with a certain page turned down
to indicate a paragraph, to Sutherland.

The paper was the ' Plain Speaker,' edited by Lagar-
dere. The paragraph was as follows :—

' Does a talented young actress, who recently left the
stage, and, in the words of the immortal " Vilikens and hit
Dinah " (why not, on this occasion, read " Diana " ?)^
married a rich merchant who in London did dwell, re-
- collect a certain boarding school somewhere in France, an
infatuated male teacher, and an elopement? It is said
that Luna was once caught tripping, to the great amuse-
ment of Pan and the Satyrs. Luna was another name
for Diana. Verb, sap.'

As he read, the ikce of Sutherland grew black as night,
his fist clenched, and he uttered an angry exclamation.

' Do you understand the reference ? ' asked Crieff.
' I don't, but I think there is no doubt as to whom it
points. But Lagardfere is fond of reiteration. Eead a
little lower down.'

Further down, after a number of jaunty and not too
grammatical paragraphs on various topics of the day, came
the following —

' When I was last in Paris, and the guest of Gambetta
(it is a curious fact, by the way, that Gambetta has an
exceedingly foul breath, and seldom or never changes his
woollen shirt or washes his large feet), our talk turned on
a volume which had just appeared, " Parfums de la Chair."
The title having a strong attraction for the not too clean
Republican, he had bought the book. He admired it
exceedingly. The affair is brought to my memory by the
fact that the author is now in London. The other night,
when we met at the house of a mutual friend, I asked him
if he had ever been at Brussels, and visited professionally
at a certain boarding school, and, if so, whether he had
acquired there sufEcient classical attainments to tell me if
the goddess Diana had ever eloped with her music master,
or appeared upon the public stage ? '

216 MARTYMDOM OF MADELINE.

Sutherland rose to his feet, crushing the paper bettveen
his clenched hands.

* It is simply devilish,' he cried. '0 that I had the
ruffian by the throat ! I would choke him like a dog ! '

' I grant you it is horrible,' said Crieff, ' but what does
it mean ? '

' Cannot you see ? It is an infernal plot to ruin an
unhappy woman.'

' There is no doubt as to whom it points 7 '

'None.'

' Diana Vere was her stage name, you see ? But is
there any truth *

'Truth? Do you expect it from these vermin ? Their
end is calumny, torture their delight. If I were only her
brother — even her friend ! '

' Eh, what would you do ? '

' Thrash this devil within an inch of his life 1 '

' And if you did, he would only thank you for an
excellent advertisement. That's the worst of it; he lives
on recriminations. I'm really very sorry ; for Lagardere,
I have always held, has his good points. He has really a
kind heart, as has been repeatedly shown by his generosity
to the sick and suffering. He got up that idea of supplying
old toys to the sick children in the hospitals, and I know
for a fact that he kept Potts Peters, the dramatist, from
starvation. I don't think he realises the mischief he does.
He calls it " plain speaking," another name for calumny.'

' Damn him ! ' said Sutherland between his set teeth.

' With all my heart, but I'll pity him too ; for one act
of true kindness atones for many sins of judgment. But I
haven't shown you all. The wasps are all at it. Look at
this in the " Whirligig." '

He handed another journal to Sutherland, who took it
with trembling hands, and, glancing down a number of
paragraphs similar to those in the ' Plain Speaker,' came
upon the following : —

' My dear Hubert, why will you pretend to omniscience 7
Tou are all very well when you are telling us of your
escapades in Russia, and your sad experiences of theatrical
mismanagement in St. Mary Axe, but you should really
try to be correct in your classical gossip. Diana never

MABTTS.DOM OF MADELINE. " 217

bolted with a music master, and she was never at Brussels.
The affair to which you allude took place at Eouen, and
the gentleman was a teacher of languages. Try again,
Hubert.'

After a few general paragraphs, one of which accused
a certain royal personage of having a liaison with his cook,
came another piece of mysterious gossip : —

' If if is to become a cause celebre, no one will regret
it more than myself; though I shall rejoice, too, if it
brings the peccant fair one back to the stage. I am sorry
for the husband, but it is really his own fault. A person
.so well known as an Art connoisseur ought to have seen
at a glance that the picture was damaged — lefore he
bought it.'

The italics were the writer's.

Livid with horror and indignation, Sutherland held the
newspaper to Crieff.

' Who — who wrote this ? ' he cried.

' Yahoo, I suspect — the editor of the " Whirligig." '

' Who and what is he ? '

' Edgar Yahoo, the last descendant of the race of the
Yahoos, for the history of which see Swift's " Gulliver " ;
the only difference being that this Yahoo no longer waits
upon the nobler animal, but delights in airing himself
upon its back.'

' Explain ! '

' Yahoo lays claim to be the founder of the new system
of journalism. Prom childhood upward he has aspired to
be the social chiffonnier of his age. He rakes for garbage
in the filth of the street and in the sewers. Don't you
remember the verses MacAlpine wrote about him ?

Who prances on through Eotten Eow

Upon his golden-footed bay?
Who prances, ambles, to and fro,

Always gay ?
Who canters back along Mayfair,

Spreading foul odours on the air,
While all draw back to cry ' Beware !

The Scavenger of Society ! '

But, for Heaven's sake, my dear Sutherland, don't take
this affair too seriously. It is very offensive, but no worse

218 MAm-TRDOM OF MADELINE.

than they write of everybody, from the Queen downwards ;
and I dare say it will do the lady in question no real
harm.'

Sutherland was pacing up and down the room, a prey
to the most violent agitation. He wheeled round sud-
denly, and faced his companion.

'Even while we speak, perhaps the poisoned arrows
have shot home. I can see the poor child — ^for she is still
a child — sickening under the shameless attack. I picture
to myself a broken heart, a ruined home, and then '

' But suppose the insinuations are false 7 '

' They may be false in essence, while having a certain
foundation in fact. Remember the lines you yourself
quoted to me when Lagardfere was our theme on a forraep
occasion — I mean the lines about " A lie which is half a
truth." Oh, it is horrible ! horrible 1 I would rather live
among the foulest of savages than among your literary
Yahoos, your so-called human beings.'

Sutherland's fears were right. When the poisoned
arrows of slander and calumny are in the air, it is not long
ere they reach their victim ; and even as he ^oke the
cowardly work was complete.

' That afternoon Madeline drove down to the Grosvenor
Library, of which she was a member, to change some books.
When she had made her choice of some new literature,
and handed it to her footman to place in her carriage, she
went upstairs to the ladies' reading-room on the second
floor.

The room was quite empty, and she strolled from table
to table, turning over the new magazines, glancing at the
journals. Presently she sat down, and began reading one
of the theatrical papers, full of current gossip ; for the old
interest in histrionic affairs still clung to her, though she
had abandoned all thoughts of returning to the stage.

Placing the theatrical paper aside after a few minutes,
she took the next journal which came to her hand. It was
the ' Whirligig,'

Idly and listlessly she began glancing over its imbecile
tittle-tattle. Suddenly her gaze was riveted. She had
come upon the paragraph beginning ' My dear Hubert.'

MARTmnOM OF MADELINE. 219

There was no mistaking the innuendo. That it re-
ferred to herself she could not doubt. Trembling like a
leaf, she held the abominable journal in her hand, and
almost by accident came upon the second paragraph.

She read on in horror, stung to the quick —

' A person so well known as an Art connoisseur ought
to have seen at a glance that the picture was damaged,
before he bought it.'

It was real, then ; all her horrible fear was justified.
Her enemy had not threatened in vain.

The room swam round her as she sank back, half
swooning in her chair. Fortunately there was no one to
observe her, for her face was pale as marble, and she seemed
like one about to die.

Presently, summoning all her strength, she looked
round the room, and her eye fell upon the last number ot
the ' Plain Speaker.' She remembered the paragraph be-
ginning ' My dear Hubert '; and knowing enough of the
amenities of personal journalism to be aware that the
reference was to a paragraph in Lagardfere's paper, she
took that paper up and searched it for the poison.

She had not far to search. She came without delay on
the allusions to Luna, Diana, Pan, and the Satyrs, and on
the mysterious matter concerning a boarding school and a
music master.

The paper fell from her hands, and a low moan broke
from her lips. She felt that she was lost indeed.

More than an hour elapsed before Madeline descended
to her carriage. Her first impulse had been to fly, to
destroy herself, to put herself beyond the power of calumny
and cruelty. But at last, conquering her first fear, she
determined to return home, and face her fate.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

A SELF-CONSTITUTED CHAMPION.

Gavrollbs was an artiste, and, with an artiste's eye, he
saw at a glance that the tactics of the newest thing in
journalism furnished an admirable means of carrying out

226 MABTTRDOM OF MADELINE,

his designs. The affair was soon arranged. A few whispera
at the Club, a few significant looks and intonations, a few
anonymous lines to the editors of the society journals, and
the thing was complete. It was a neck-to-neck race
between Lagard&re and the Yahoo as to which should use
the poison first.

Gavrolles bought the ' Plain Speaker,' and grinned
diabolically. He bought the ' Whirligig,' and positively
beamed with malignant delight.

' Ah, madame ! ' he murmured to himself, ' what will
you say for yourself now ? '

In the EBSthetic circle of which he was so brilliant an
ornament, and where the scandal was soon the topic of
passing conversation, Gavrolles assumed an aspect of lofty
indignation, and affected to deplore the public taste which
could find pleasure in journalism so biiitale. Pressed by
his intimates for an explanation of the innuendoes, he
would smile sadly, pass his thin fingers through his hair,
and profess his determination to ' compromise no one.'
There were subjects, he said, in which a woman's honour
was concerned, and which he could not discuss ; there were
secrets which it was a man's duty to lock firmly in his
breast, lest the happiness of another should suffer — ah,
yes ! And the lean young gentlemen and limp young
ladies looked at their plaster of Paris idol with increased
adoration.

About this time, it should be noted, Gavrolles was
sincerely inspired by the Divine Muse. He wrote a great
many verses, which he would read aloud to himself, with
much gesticulation, in the privacy of his lodging. Some-
times he even entertained his aesthetic admirers with a
selection from these splendid inspirations. Ponto was spell-
bound, sent a little article to the ' Megatherium ' as a sort
of puff preliminary, expressing a hope that these new
' adumbrations of an- august poesy ' would soon be published
in post octavo, oij rough paper with blunt type, like the
divine ' Parfums de la Chair.' As a specimen of the new
work (which, he took occasion to say, posterity would re-
member when Eacine, Moliere, and Lamartine were all
forgotten, and only Gautier, Baudelaire, and Gavrolles re-
membered) he quoted at full length the priceless pearl of

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 221

loveliness, tlie ' ballade ' entitled ' Diane : Chute d'un
Ange.'

One morning, as this great cosmic creature was sipping
his coffee and turning over the leaves of a new book by
Zola (not without much superfine disgust, for he held that
eccentric writer in very genuine dislike), a gentleman was
announced, and before GavroUes could utter a word the
gentleman entered. One glance at his face sufficed. The
Frenchman had seen it already once or twice before, and
hated it cordially.

' My name is Sutherland,' said the new comer, quietly
closing the door behind him. ' Possibly you remember
me?'

GavroUes rose smiling, though his cheek w^as a little
pale, his mouth a little venomous. ' Ah ! yes,' he re-
membered well Monsieur Sutherland, who had been intro-
duced to him by that ' drole ' of a Crieff. He was de-
lighted to make his acquaintance. If he could serve him
in any way, he would be enraptured.

' Your rapture will diminish, perhaps,' said Sutherland,
paying no attention to the hand which waved him to a
chair, ' when I tell you what brings me here.'

' Indeed 1 ' exclaimed GavroUes, rather nervously, for
his visitor's manner was not encouraging.

' You have alluded to our second meeting. Pray do
you remember our first ? '

' Oxa first, Monsieur ? '

He did remember, only too well for his mental comfort,
and even as he spoke the dreary sallea manger in the little
French town arose before him, and he faced again the
powerful figiire with the stem eyes and the firm square jaw.

' It was a few years ago, in France. You had then in
your company a young lady whom you called your wife,
and to whom, suspecting the nature of your connection
with her, I offered my assistance. I afterwards saw you
again, when this lady was still in your power, and you
were using her .IS the decoy of a gambling hell.'

GavroUes was now livid. He saw that his visitor
meant mischief, and with an execration he sprang up as if
to move to the door. But Sutherland blocked the way
with an ominous scowl.

222 MARTYRDOM 01' MADELINE.

' Keep your .seat ! I have not yet done with you ! '

' Monsieur, this outrage '

' Bah 1 do not trouble yourself to seem indignant.
You shall hear me out.'

' I shall do nothing of the kind ! '

' If you attempt to leave this room,' said Sutherland
calmly, ' I shall thrash you within an inch of your life ! '

As he spoke he held in the air a riding- whip, which
he appeared to have provided for the purpose.

' Eobber 1 assassin I ' cried Gavrolles, and he put the
table between himself and his visitor.

' I am neither,' said Sutherland. .' I am simply the
friend of a lady whom it seems your determination to per-
secute and destroy. Nor is she the only one of your
victims with whom I am acquainted. Have you forgotten
Adfele Lambert?'

' I know no such person.'

' You are a liar 1 ' returned Sutherland dryly. ' You
know her — you betrayed her — only a few nights ago she
struck you in the face.'

' Leave my apartment — scoundrel ! '

' It is you who are the scoundrel. I have come to
call you to an account.'

Gavrolles threw his arms in the air in savage despera-
tion.

' I don't know you or your degraded companions. If
we were not living in a country where the code of honour
is unknown, you should answer with your life for this
outrage. But there ! You are a coward, and trade upon the
immunity given by your absurd laws. You know that we
cannot in England meet as gentlemen — that is why you
venture so far.'

' You are mistaken,' returned Sutherland, still with the
same sang-froid. ' It would give me the greatest pleasure
to rid the world of so consummate a reptile, but that is
neither her« nor there. To come to my business. You
must give me forthwith your promise to abandon your
persecution of Mrs. Forster, and to leave England with
0"»t delay.'

' I do not understand.'

' Oh yes, you do 1 *

MARTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 223

' Who is the lady ? ' asked GavroUes, with a sneer.
' Pray be explicit. I know no person of the name you
mention.'

' I mean the wife of Mr. James Forster, of Kensington.
Do not assume ignorance. I know the nature of your re-
lations together.'

' Pardon me, but in your capacity of bully, of bandit,
monsieur, you overrate my intelligence. I know the
gentleman to whom you allude. I have not the pleasure
of knowing his wife.'

' Eead those paragraphs.'

Sutherland drew from his breast" pocket, and handed
across the table, copies of the ' Whirligig ' and the ' Plain
Speaker,' with the passages concerning Madeline marked in
pencil. GavroUes glanced at them, and smiled curiously^
then tossed them back across the table.

' You understand those references 7 '

' Completely,' answered GavroUes, with a mock bow.
He was rapidly regaining his composure, and making
ready to strike his strongest blow.

' Yet you have the assurance to tell me that you are un-
acquainted with the lady whose name I have mentioned ? '

GavroUes bowed again.

' Is she not the same with whom I saw you in company
over there in France ? '

'And if she is 7'

' If she is, you are a liar on your own showing. You
professed not to know her.'

' I professed nothing of the kind. I said 1 did not
know Mrs. Forster.'

' She is the same person.'

'Pardon me, that is impossible. She may be living
under that gentleman's roof, she may even be bearing his
name — but she is not his wife 1 '

It was now Sutherland's turn to look astonished. Some-
thing in the man's supercilious smile, in his growing
audacity and self-possession, disconcerted him.

' What ! — do you actually insinuate '

' Nothing whatever, mr>risieur. I merely state a fact.
But before we continue the conversation, may I ask you a
question 7 Has the lady herself sent you here ? '

?,24 MAMTTRD03I OF MADELINE.

' No,' returned Sutherland, with a heightened colonr ;
'I came on my own responsibility.'

' Oh ! — a self- constituted champion, I presume? '

' If you put it in that way, yes.'

' You are a friend of hers, of course ? '

' I am so far her friend that I will not see her victim-
ised by a scoundrel.'

' Referring to me, monsieur ? ' asked Gavrolles, with
venomous politeness.

Gavrolles, now completely master of himself, leant over
the table and looked straight into Sutherland's eyes.

' You are very impetuous, monsieur, and not too choice
in your use of — what you call — Beelingsgate ; but I
should wish very much to give you a little piece of advice.
Before you proceed any further in this affair I should
recommend you to consult the lady herself.'

'Why?'

' It would be better — for the lady.'

There was no mistaking the threatening significance of
the Frenchman's tone ; but, as he spoke, he took a cigarette
from a box upon the table, lit it, and looked keenly through
the smoke at Sutherland.

Seeing that he did not immediately reply, but seemed
dubious and perplexed, Gavrolles airily continued —

' I am content, you see, to take the lady's opinion on
the subject. If she sends you here as her accredited
agent and defender, I will speak to you, as one gentleman
to another. Even then, look you, I should be condescending,
amiable. It is not every man who would permit a com-
plete stranger to dictate to him on a matter concerning
only himself and madame his wife.'

' What do you mean ? ' cried Sutherland, now thoroughly
startled. ' You cannot mean that '

' If you will permit me,' said Gavrolles, now thoroughly
master of the situation, ' I will explain ; but bear in mind,
monsieur, you have forced this avowal upon me by
your brutal English violence. Otherwise, I should never
have spoken. You have bc"n good enough, Monsieur
Sutherland, to say that I am a liar. Au contraire, I do
not lie. When we first met, I said the young lady in my
company was my wife. It was the truth. A little while
ago, I said there was no such person as Mrs. Forster. It was

MARTYRDOM OIP MADELINE. 22S

the truth. Why 7 do you ask. Because a lady cannot bear
the name of a second husband, when her first husband is
alive.'

There was no mistaking the supreme assurance of the
man ; he spoke with the strength of a settled conviction.
Sutherland looked at him in amaze, as the full horror of
the situation dawned upon his bewildered mind.

' You thought me a commonplace seducer,' continued
the Frenchman, loftily ; ' on the contrary, I am an artiste
and a man of honour. I took that lady in honourable
marriage. Afterwards, a cruel series of events drew us
asunder, that was all.'

' You deserted her,' cried Sutherland. ' You left her
to starve or die ! '

' Unfortunately, we did not agree ; she was violent,
and I — ^I will confess it — I was violent too. Eh bien !
At the time of which I speak I was heavily iff debt, and
had to escape my creditors. I asked her to accompany
me, and she refused. A brief separation was necessary.
Alas ! Little did I dream that in so short a space of time
she would forget her lawful husband, and contract a biga-
mous union with another man.'

He paused a moment, then he concluded —

' Now, monsieur, the champion of madame, I hope you
are satisfied. In any case, there is the door.'

As he spoke he sat down in his chair beside the fire as
if intimating that the interview had come to an end.

Sutherland stood perplexed, and watched him for some
moments in silence. Then putting on his hat, he said in
a low voice —

' Your tale is plausible, but I do not believe it. In any
case you proclaim yourself a scoundrel. If it were not for
your victim's sake, for the fear of creating a scandal, I
think I should carry out my promise, and thrash you.
However, I shall postpone your punishment for the present.
But remember, if the lady we have been discussing comes
to grief through your malignity, if these calumnies grow,
and any evil happens to her through them or you, you will
have to settle accounts with me 1 '

So saying he left the room, and rapidly descended the
stairs into the street.

Q

226 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

No sooner had he gone than Gavrolles, who with aa-
Bumed sang-froid had with diflficulty concealed a savage
ferocity, sprang wildly up, crossed the room, and took from
a sideboard an oblong mahogany box, which he opened
with a small key. Inside was a set of delicately finished
duelling pistols, with cartridges to match.

And now, with eyes flashing, mouth foaming, all his
body working in epileptiform rage, Gavrolles took up one
of the weapons, and evoked an imaginary opponent in the
air.

' You would thrash me, you would profane me with a
blow ! ' he hissed aloud. ' Ah, ruffian ! bandit ! devil !
dog of an Englishman ! if I had you before me — thus ! —
in my own country, I would put a bullet through your
heart. Come again, with your bulldog face, and I shall be
prepared ! '

With these words the cosmic creature put the pistol
back in its case, and proceeded to dress himself for his
usual morning promenade.

Meanwhile Sutherland was pursuing his way along the
streets, in a brown study — or shall we rather say a black
one — as expressed in a face of the blackest gloom. So !
His ideal heroine, the idol he had set vip in his heart as a
type of all-patient and suffering woman, was a guilty
creature, one who, to entrap an honourable man, had re-
presented herself as single, whereas she knew that her
husband lived ! It was scarcely credible, yet the tale, as
he had said, seemed plausible enough, and the Frenchman
seemed to have the courage of conviction.

A man less satisfied in his own mind of the superiority
of the weaker sex over the stronger would doubtless have
withdrawn from all interference in an affair so suspicious ;
but Sutherland, perhaps because he was a bachelor with
very little practical experience of female baseness, took an
optimistic view of womankind. He could scarcely conceive
the idea of an utterly impure and wicked woman, though
he had the strongest possible belief in the impurity and
wickedness of men. He was thoroughly inexperienced,
impartial, and ideal. Having decided in his own mind
that women are the victims of a social conspiracy (a
terj'ible social truth, although one which he lacked the

MABTTMDOM OF MADELINE. 227

worldly philosophy to formulate truly), he never hesitated
for a moment to battle upon their side, with all the deep
enthusiasm and moral pugnacity of his nature. So there
is little occasion for wonder in the fact that the more he
thought over the matter the deeper grew his conviction
that Madeline was a martyr and Gavrolles an even blacker
scoundrel than he had at first believed.

CHAPTER XXXV

MADELINE PREPARES FOR FLIGHT.

Pale as marble, like a woman to whom worldly phenomena
can bring neither thought nor care, because she is doomed
to an ignominious and cruel death, Madeline returned
home. Entering the house, she fled up to her own room,
and there, heartbroken and alone, remained face to face
■with her despair.

She did not weep — ^or pray. The sense of an arid and
heart-burning oppression kept her eyes dry, and turned her
heart, that might, have been the ibuntain of pure prayer,
to stone. She hated herself, the world, all that she had
seen and known. God Himself seemed against her, for
she knew her own innocence. Ah, yes ! How she had
tried, and tried, to be good, to be at peace; and it was
all in vain. At every turn of her young life the evil
shadow rose, pushing her down to some desolate abyss of
shame.

As she sat thinking it all over, she seemed covered from
head to foot with some horrible pollution. Though her
spirit was pure, impurity was upon her, choking and
stifling her with its abomination. She shuddered and
moaned, praying for one- thing only — that death might
quickly come.

What should she say or do, when she saw the kind
eyes harden into indignation, the kind face darken with
this last shame ? Sooner or later, her husband must know
the truth, if he did not know it already, if the malignant
voices in the air had not already whispered it to him. She

02

228 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

shrank in horror, thinking of how she coiild meet hia

One thing now seemed certain to her — that the roof
which covered her was no longer hers, that to remain with
James Forster as his lawful wife was to live on in open
adultery, which was not marriage. He himself, she knew,
would be the first to recognise the infamy of that union ;
and then, even if he pitied her, as was faintly possible, how
should she bear the scrutiny of the world, the worldly
scorn of his sister's cruel eyes ?

As she sat despairing there came a soft knock at the
door, which she had locked on entering ; and the voice of
her little step-son cried —

' Mamma ! mamma ! '

She could not answer, she seemed choking ; and now
for the first time her eyes were dim and blind. The cry
was repeated —

' Mamma ! mamma ! open the door ! '

Without stirring she at last found strength to speak.

' Who is there ? '

' It is I, mamma ! Let me in ! '

' Go away, dear ; I am dressing.'

' Papa has sent me for you. He has just come home,
and is waiting to see you.'

Waiting to see her ? She shuddered as if stabbed, and
unconsciously made a gesture of supplication. Could he
have heard the truth, or a whisper of the truth ?

' Mamma, do you hear ? Will you not come ? '

She forced herself to answer —

' Yes, I am coming. Go away now, dear ! I will be
down directly.'

Then she heard the little feet pattering away. She
rose and wearily paced up and down the room. Her heart
felt dead within her, her whole life frozen in her veins.
She looked in the glass, and was startled at her face ; it
was so ghastly in its set look of pain.

What could she do ? She knew that if she did not go
down Forster would be certain to come to seek her. At
last she resolved in very desperation to answer his summons.
She cared not what happened now ; if- the worst came, it

MABIYRBOM OF MADELINE. 229

must come sooner or later. Perhaps she might summon
up courage to tell him the truth with her own lips.

She went slowly downstairs. In the lobby she saw the
child, who ran to her and took her hand.

' Papa is in the study. Come.'

And he tried to draw her along with him. She stooped
and kissed him on the brow.

' Wait for me in the drawing-room,' she said. ' Is
Aunt Margaret there ? '

' Yes,' said the boy. ' You will bring papa ? '

He bounded from her, and she walked slowly towards
the study. The door was closed, and for a moment she
paused, faltering, before she opened it ; then she passed
in, and saw her husband sitting reading by the fire.*

He had a newspaper in his hand. At a glance she
recognised Lagardfere's journal, the ' Plain Speaker.' The
room swam round her ; she felt as if she was about to
faint.

But Forster looked up with a bright smile, and tossed
down the journal.

' Ah, my dear Madeline,' he said. ' You see I am home
early again ; I'm afraid I'm losing all my business habits.
But good heavens I ' he continued, noticing her face, ' how
pale you lock ! Is anything the matter t''

' Nothing ; only — I have a bad headache.'

' I am sorry for that. Not so bad, I hope, as to pre-
vent you going out this evening ? Serena, who can't go,
has sent me a box for the first night of " A Trip to Scar-
borough," at the Parthenon. Talking of Serena, there is a
most amusing " Verbal Phototype " of him in the " Plain
Speaker.".'

It was clear that he knew nothing, that he had heard
nothing, read nothing — though the very journal which con-
tained the poison had just left his hand. Madeline
breathed again. There was at least to be a little respite.

' But you do not look at all yourself,' he continued,
'and as the night is damp, you are perhaps better at
home.'

' Yes ; I cannot go.'

' I am BO sorry, as Aram's first nights are generally

230 MAUTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

amusing, and you would have enjoyed yourself. What
■shall v/e do with the box ? It is too late, I fear, to send it
to any of your friends.'

' You will go, of course,' said Madeline eagerly. ' Miss
Forster will go with you.'

' No ; I shall remain with you.'

' You must go ! ■*

The tone was so strange, so full of entreaty, than
Forster was startled. He gazed at liis wife again with
deep solicitude, and drew her gently to his side.

' I should not think of going out and leaving you alone.
My darling, you are far from well. You must see Dr.
Quin to-morrow, and see if his advice is any use.'

As he spoke, he drew her down as if to kiss her fondly ;
but with a nervous shudder she disengaged herself from hia
arms.

' No, no,' she cried. ' It is only a headache, and wIU
pass away. You must go to the theatre with your sister ;
I shall be better — when you return.'

' I would much rather remain with you.'

' But I wish you to go — I — I should be wretched if you
remained on my account.'

' And I should be wretched there without you. I
really will not go.'

' Not if I wish it, James ? '

' Why should you wish it ? '

She looked at him sadly, and turned away ; for her
heart was bursting at sight of his kind face, so gentle and
so unsuspecting.

' Why should you wish it ? You know, dearest, I have
no pleasure in anything of this kind unless you are with
me. I would rather have a quiet evening at home in
your company than go out alone to any entertainment,
however amusing.'

' I know that,' she said in a low voice, ' but to-night —
I would rather be alone. When you are gone, and all is
quiet, I shall lie down, and when you come back I shall be
quite well. So go, for my sake — I wish you to be there.'

Seeing her so persistent, and thinking her wish was a
mere whim which it would be unkind not to gratify, Forstpr
at last assented, though with a very unwilling mind. He

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 231

was really alarmed at his wife's look and manner, and
setting it down, in his loving solicitude, to some growing
illness, he determined in his own mind to consult the family
physician without delay.

Having extracted his promise, Madeline prepared to go.
Before retiring, however, she took up the ' Plain Speaker,'
and said —

' May I take this with me ? I may be able to r^ad a
little, and — and — I should like to read about Mr. Serena.'

Her hands shook like a leaf as she clutched the paper,
her faced assumed an even ghastlier pallor. She moved
tremulously to the door.

' I shall not come down to dinner,' she said.

' No ? Then let me ' send you something to your
room.'

' I could not touch a morsel, while my headache lasts.
Don't mind me, but go to the theatre and enjoy yourself.
Good — good-bye ! '

Not ' good-night,' but ' good-bye.' He did not notice
the words then, but they recurred to him long afterwards,
with an ominous and piteous sound. As she tittered them,
she yielded to an irresistible impulse, and, quickly return-
ing to his side, stooped over him and kissed him. As she
did so, he felt a hot tear fall upon his cheek.

' Madeline, my darling ! ' he cried in astonishment, and
stretched out his arms to embrace her, but before he could
do so she was gone.

She fled back to her lonely room, and there, locked in
and alone, sh« threw herseK upon the bed and sobbed
wildly. By the bedside lay the fatal journal, which she
had carried with her, and which had now fallen from her
lax and feeble hand.

An hour and a half passed away. At last she heard a
knock at the bedroom door, and then Forster's voice —

' Madeline, are you asleep ? May I come in ? '

She waited, trembling, for a little time before she
replied. Then she answered, not rising from the bed —

',1 am trying to rest. I thought that you had gone to
the theatre.'

' The carriage is at the door. How is your headache?'

' A little better.'

232 MABTTBDOM OF MADELINE.

'Try to sleep, my darling. I shall come back very
early.'

She heard him pass downstairs ; then, rising from her
bed, she listened eagerly. Presently she heard the front
door open and close, and the carriage drive away. Her
■whole manner now changed, and she moved about her
room, lifting one thing and another as if with a set deter-
mination.

She had resolved to leave James Forster's house that
night.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

' GOOD-BYE 1 '

To remain under that roof another night, when she knew
the horrible truth, was profanation. For some days she
had hoped and prayed that her enemy had lied when he
claimed her as his lawful wife ; and so, doubting and fearing,
avoiding Forster's society on the plea of indisposition, she
had delayed and waited. Now, however, delay was im-
possible. That her enemy meant mischief was proved by
the fact that he had already breathed these slanders into
the air. She could not stay to face the anger of the man
she loved, or, worst of all, his sorrow. She would go at
once, without another hour's delay.

Her resolve once made, its very intensity sustained
her. She dried her eyes, and quietly prepared to go forth
on foot. At first she thought of taking with her a portion
of her wardrobe, and a few simple ornaments which
Forster had given her ; but this thought was soon
abandoned. Keeping on the dress she wore, a plain robe
of dark material, she drew on a dark bonnet, and threw
round her shoulders a shawl, the commonest thing of the
kind she possessed, but costly nevertheless. In her im-
pulsive haste she forgot the bracelets upon her hands.

She listened till all was still. Then she stole softly
downstairs.

In the hall she hesitated. Should she leave him no
message ; no intimation of her resolve ? If she disappeared
without a word of explanation there would be a scandal,

MARTYRDOM OP MADELINE. 233

a hue and cry. Besides, it would be so cruel. No ; she
could not go away without leaving a few written words.

She passed along the lobby into the little study, and
sitting down in Forster's chair tried to scribble some
hurried lines. As she did so her tears began to fall. She
was sitting thus, in deep agitation, when a footman entered
to attend to the fire, and, after standing amazed for a
moment at the sight of his mistress, retired with a murmur
of apology.

This intrusion brought her back to herself. After
writing and destroying several wild effusions, she wrote
the following : —

' I am going away. Do not follow me or try to find
me; by the time you receive this I shall perhaps have
done with this world for ever. Try to forgive me. In-
deed, indeed, I am grateful to you for all your goodness,
but when you learn the truth you will see that I could
not stay. Kiss your little boy for me. God bless him
and you ! ' Madeline.'

The paper was wet with tears, but she folded it up and
inclosed it in an envelope, which she addressed and left
upon the study table.

Then, shuddering, she rose and left the room, drawing
down her thick veil over her face. In the lobby she met
the same servant who had surprised her in the study.

' I am going out,' she said, in reply to his amazed
stare. ' If your master returns '

' Beg pardon, ma'am,' exclaimed the man, ' but you
can't think of it. It's pouring wet.'

' I cannot help that. It is very important.'

Aghast at her persistence, the man opened the front
door, and she saw the gleam of the gas in the wet street
and on the falling shafts of rain. He was about to inter-
fere once more, when she slipped by him, and disappeared
in the darkness.

' And without an umbrella, too ! ' he afterwards ex-
plained to his fellow- servants. ' She's off her head, I think.
I see the tears quite plain in her eyes as she sat writing in
master's room. There's something wrong, I'm sure ; but,
after aU, it's no business of mine.'

23i MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

About half-past eleven o'clock Forster and his sister
returned from the theatre. On entering the house, Forster
at once hurried upstairs to Madeline's boudoir, and found
it empty, as well as the adjoining bedroom. Then he
hastened downstairs, thinking to find his wife there.

At the foot of the stairs he found Miss Forster, in low
' conversation with one of the men-servants. Without
noticing their agitated appearance and demeanour, he
inquired if Mrs. Forster was in the drawing-room.

The servant did not reply, but Margaret Forster, very
pale, placed her hand upon her brother's arm.

' Madeline is not there,' she said, adding, with an
emotion unusual to her, while her eyes filled with tears,
' Oh, James ! my poor brother.'

Forster stood terrified.

' Something has happened ! ' he cried. ' Madeline "is
ill ? Where is she 7 For God's sake tell me ! '

Then he turned to the servant.

' Speak, you ! Are you dumb ? Where is your
mistress ? '

The man was about to make some bltmdering reply,
^when Miss Forster interposed.

' Madeline is not at home.'

' Not at home ! ' echoed Forster wildly,

' Oh, James, keep calm ! Perhaps she will soon come
back ; but she went out two hours ago on foot quite
alone, and has not yet returned.'

Gone out ? And at such an hour, and on such a night.
The thing seemed utterly inconceivable, and Forster could
not trust his ears. But the servant on being pressed gave
so circumstantial an account of what had occurred, that
doubt was no longer possible. He reserved his most im-
portant piece of information till the last.

' And please, sir, I think she left a letter for you, sir ;
leastways she was writing one, and I see it lying afterwards
on the study table.'

Without waiting to hear more, Forster rushed ti ward
the study, while his sister still remained questioning the
servant. A few minutes afterwards Miss Forster heard a
cry and a fall, and on entering the study found Forster
lying on the hearth, insensible, with Madeline's letter
open in his hand.

ilARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 235

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE SEARCH.

It was the first great shock that Forster had ever felt
during a life of quiet activity, marlced from time to time
by small and frequently ignoble troubles ; and it struck
him like a thunderbolt — to use the familiar but terribly
expressive simile. When he came to himself, he was like
a man mentally stupefied and physically decrepit. He
read the letter over and over again, and wept over it ; and
the more he read it, the less he understood its true
'meaning. Only one thing was clear — that Madeline had
left his house of her own freewill, with no intention of
returning, and with no hint of any reason for her flight.

Despite his sister's entreaties, he himself left the house
in search of the fugitive. It was now long past midnight,
and the rain was still fallihg heavily ; but he buttoned hi8
greatcoat round him, and rushed out into the street.

His first inquiries were of the policemen in the neigh-
bourhood, but they could tell him nothing. He hastened
then to the nearest cabstand, thinking that possibly Made-
line might have hired a vehicle there ; but he gained no
information. Then he stood helpless under the dark sky,
in the midst of the great city, uncertain which way to turn.

For he had not the slightest clue to guide him in his
search, Madeline had no friends in the city to whom she
might fly ; none, certainly to his knowledge, and White
himself had told him that she was a friendless orphan.
The thought of White, however, brought up the recol-
lection of Madame de Berny, who had been keeping house
for White when he died, and who was still, thanks to
Forster's assistance, in possession of the old quarters,
which she let in lodgings. It was just possible Madeline
might have gone there.

The thought was enough. He hailed a hansom, and
was driven rapidly to St. John's Wood.

He was doomed to disappointment. When he had
aroused the sleeping house, and scared Madame de Berny
out of her wits by the sight of his haggard, spectral face,

236 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

he found that the poor soul knew nothing. He hurried
away with scarcely a word of explanation.

All that night he haunted the streets, seeking for a
trace of any kind. Of course, it was in vain.

Long after daybreak he returned to his lonely house
and found his sister awaiting him in deep anxiety.

She saw by one glance at his face that he had been
unsuccessful. He walked into the study, threw himself
in1x3 a chair ; she followed him, and touched him softly
on the shoulder. He looked up wildly, like a man whose
wits are going.

' You have heard nothing ? ' she asked.

He shook his head in despair.

' I feared you would not,' she continued. ' My dear
James, you must have courage — you must look this terrible
event in the face. May I speak to you ? Do you think
you can bear to talk of it, of her ? '

' What have you to say ? '

His tone was irritable, almost querulous.

* Only this, James — that you must not torture yourself
unnecessarily. Eemember there are others who love^you
— myself — your darling boy. If Madeline has left you, it
is o. jaer own freewill. I am not surprised that you have
not found her ; she doubtless provided well against that.
She wished to leave you 1 Don't forget that 1 '

' Why should she wish it ? ' he groaned.

' Why do other wives leave their husbands ? They do
leave them, every day.'

There was something in her tone so significant, so
ominous, that he could not misconceive her. He sprang
up as if stung and faced her.

' What do you mean 7 '

' I never thought Madeline quite happy in this house.
I never thought she loved you as you deserved. If she is
unworthy to bear your name '

' She is not unworthy ! I will never believe it, 1
will not hear one word against her, even from you. Do
you hear ? not one word 1 I know you never cared for
her, never treated her like a sister, and now you would
poison my soul against her. I tell you I will not listen to
you — never, never 1 '

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 237

Margaret Forster felt not a little indignant ; her brow
darkened, and the sympathetic dimness passed away from
her cold grey eyes ; but being truly mistress of the situa-
tion, she could afford to be, and was, magnanimous.

' You are very unjust to me,' she said, ' but I shall think
it is your trouble that speaks, and not yourself, I have
never been unkind to Madeline ; on the contrary, I have
treated her with the greatest affection and respect. If I
have sometimes thought that she was scarcely conscious of
the duties of a lady in her position, I have always silenced
myself with the reflection that she was your choice. Yes,
James, always. No matter what I have feared, what I
have seen, I have been silent for your sake.'

' In the name of God,' said Forster, impatiently, ' cease
to torture me. If you know anything to relieve my
suspense, speak out. If not, leave me, leave me 1 '

As he spoke he sank again into his chair, hiding his
face in his hands. She watched him for some moments in
silence, sighing heavily and occasionally wiping her eyes,
for she was genuinely affected ; but with the firmness of a
skilled surgeon, who sympathises with the patient whom
it is impossible to spare, since a cruel operation is im-
perative, she at length spoke again.

' You will hear sad truths sooner or later, James ; it is
better that you should hear them first from me. I want
you to understand, once for all, that it is useless to waste
your strength, to break your heart, over what is irre-
coverable.'

' Do you mean Madeline ? I tell you I will find her.
If I search the whole world I will find her.'

' And if you do, what then ? '

' I will pray to her on my knees to return.'

' Whether she is worthy or unworthy 7 '

' Margaret, take care ! I won't hear one whisper
against her.'

Margaret's lips tightened, and her surgical manner
increased.

' If you will not listen to me,' she said, ' at least attend
to what the world says. These papers were sent, under
cover, to me, this morning. It is my duty, James, to bring
them to your attention.'

238 MA UTTRDOM OF MADELINE.

So saying, ehe handed to him copies of the ' Plain
Speaker ' and the ' Whirligig ' ;. they had indeed been sent
to her by an anonymous correspondent, who had taken the
trouble to mark the obnoxious paragraphs very carefully in
red ink.

Forster looked at them, and seemed to read them in »
dazed, stupefied sort of way ; and as he did so shudder
after shudder ran through his frame. But he evinced less
surprise than his sister had anticipated.

' Of course, James, you understand these allusions ?
Do they refer in any way to your wife ? - In any case, can
you explain them ? '

' Yes,' he answered, looking up into her eyes.

' They refer to Madeline ? '

' I believe so,' he answered, rising ; ' and now — oh,
God 1 — ^I begin to see what has driven my darling away.
She feared some infamous persecution ; she dreaded these
infernal slanders ; she read these very words. But I will
follow her. I will tell her '

' James, dear James, listen to me 1 '

' Well, well ! '

' Are these insinuations truel Is there any foundation
for the statement that — that when you married Madeline
there was something dreadful, of which you knew nothing,
in her past life 7 '

' It is a lie ! ' cried Forster, with strange energy. ' She
never deceived me — she is incapable of deceit — she is a
martyr ! Do you think that I doubt her ? If you dream so,
you little know either of us. She deceived me in nothing.'

' But there was some scandal, and you heard of it ? '

' Whatever there was, / hnew,' answered Forster,
firmly ; ' but I will not discuss it — it is sacrilege ! '

He made a movement as if to leave the room, but
Margaret, who had not yet applied the knife to her own
satisfaction, again restrained him.

' Are you sure you knew everything ? ' she demanded
sadly. ' Everything, I mean, before your marriage — and
after ? '

He turned eagerly and looked at her, for he saw, by
her tone and by the expression of her face, that her wori
meant more than met the ear.

MARTYBDOM OF MADELINE. 239

' After our marriage P ' he repeated.

' Yes, James. Did Madeline inform you that recently,
on two separate occasions, she had meetings with a French
gentleman — with the very man, I believe, referred to in
these paragraphs ? '

' She had not ! No, it is impossible I '

' Then she did not tell you ? '

'No!'

'But it is the truth!'

' It is not the truth — I will never believe it.'

' I repeat that it is my duty to make you do so,' said
Margaret Forster. ' Dear James, you must believe it —
better now than later on. There is no smoke without
iire — no slander without some foundation in fact. May I
tell you all I heard ? '

She saw that he was at her mercy ; and forthwith, in
her zeal to protect him against any further machinations
of an unworthy woman, she informed him that she had her-
self witnessed the meeting with Gavrolles at the Countess
Aurelia's, and had seen enough to shock and terrify her
exceedingly. Then with a certain amount of nervousness,
but no compunction, she admitted that, in duty to her
brother, she had afterwards played the spy, and, had
watched from a distance, next day, the secret meeting at
the Albert Memorial in Hyde Park.

Forster heard her out with a strange sickness of heart ;
and when she had finished he looked at her with a face so
wistful, so sorrowful, that she could no longer restrain her
tears.

' Oh, James,' she cried, ' forget her ! She was never
worthy of your love. Think of those who do love you —
and of your child ! '

He answered her in a voice hollow but determined —

' My first thought must be of Jier. What you have
told me confirms me in my opinion that she is sinless.
Until I find her and ask her forgiveness, I shall not rest.
O Madeline ! raj love 1 my wife ! '

He rushed weeping from the room. Miss Forster re-
mained spell-bound. ' Find her, and ask her forgiveness? '
She could scarcely believe the evidence of her ears; the
idea was so utterly preposterous.

240 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

Owing to the circumstances of the case, it was im-
possible to advertise for the fugitive in the public journals,
in any such way as would lead to her discovery and dis-
comfiture. She had gone away of her own freewill, and
any mystery attached to her disappearance was of her own
making. To awaken the hue and cry for her by name
would have been to set all the bells of slander pealing,
and Porster was determined to spare both himself and the
woman he loved so utter a humiliation.

Nevertheless, he inserted in the ' agony ' column of
the ' Times ' a brief appeal, signed ' P.,' and headed
' Queen's Gate,' which the initiated only understood. Then
he went to the head of a private inquiry office, conducted
by a firm of ex-detectives, and secured his co-operation.

' If she's in London, we'll find her, sir,' said the chief,
a jaunty, military-looking man, with a bald head and
French moustache and imperial. ' We'll set to work at
once. You say she'd no friends handy ? '

' None, that I am aware of.'

' Equally sure, I suppose, that there ain't a gentleman
in the case ? Excuse me. AU in the way of business,
you know.'

' I am quite certain she is alone.'

' Very good, sir. I'll let you know the moment we
hear anything of importance.'

Porster was going to leave the oflS.ce, when he suddenly
recollected, with a shudder, his sister's insinuations as to
the mysterious meetings with the Prenchman. With a
deep sense of shame, while strongly expressing his own
faith in his wife's purity, he explained to the officer what
had taken place. That functionary immediately pricked
up his ears, for he saw a clue. Could Porster supply him
with the Prenchman's name ? Porster could not, in the spur
of the moment, but that afternoon he procured it from his
sister (who had noted it carefully down for future use when
at the Countess's), and sent it on to the inquiry office.

A few days afterwards he was informed, quasi-officially,
that the Prench gentleman in question, M. GavroUes, was
living quietly at his London lodgings, and, though watched
day and night, appeared quite innocent of any knowledge
of the fugitive's whereabouts.

MARTTMDOM OP MADELIKB. 241

This, we may remark in parenthesis, was literally true.
The news of Madeline's flight, which had, of course, been
bruited abroad despite all Forster's precautions, had taken
Gavrolles utterly by surprise. The cosmic creature felt
himself circumvented, bewildered. His victim had escaped
him for the time being, that was clear, and until she re-
appeared upon the scene he could do nothing whatever in
the matter.

One morning, as the chief of the private inquiry office
sat waiting for business, there was shown in a gentleman,
who, after a brief conversation, proved to have come on
the very same business already entrusted to the firm by
Forster. He wished the strictest inquiry to be made con-
cerning the whereabouts of the missing lady, until she was
traced and discovered, when he was at once to receive
intimation.

' You'll excuse me, sir,' said the chief, looking very
mysterious, ' but may I ask, are you any relation to the
lady ? '

' None whatever.'

' A friend, perhaps ? '

' Scarcely that. I am interested deeply in her fate,
however, and if you find out what has become of her I
will pay you handsomely.'

The chief seemed to reflect deeply.

' I don't think you mean any harm, sir,' he said pre-
sently, ' and I can see you're a real gentleman, but you see
we have to be careful. Is Mr. Forster a friend of yours ? '

' No ; I don't think I ever saw him in my life.'

' Then, of course, sir, you can't owe him any grudge ? '

' Certainly not. All the harm I wish him is that he
may recover his wife, and that they may be happily re-
conciled.'

The chief smiled.

'Then I don't mind telling you, sir,' he said, 'that
we're instructed already — by the husband. You can't
serve two masters, as the saying is, but if we can oblige
you irt any way, without breaking faith to our first em-
ployer, we'll do it.'

' You can keep me informed of your progress, and i£
you are successful '

242 MARTYltDOM OP MADELINE.

' Let you know ? Well, I think we can promise that,
I'll take down your name, if you please, sir.'

' Edgar Sutherland,' replied the gentleman, adding the
address of his club.

' Ah, sir,' said the officer, ' I'm sorry you're not a friend
of the poor gentleman's. He really ivants a friend. To
see him coming here day after day, as white as a ghost,
and his eyes all wild with crying, almost turned me over,
old hand as I am ; and the rummest thing of all is, he
won't hear a word, not as much as a whisper, against the
lady — though it looks black about her, it really does.
Good-morning, sir ! We'll be sure to let you know.'

Had Sutherland been asked why he occupied himself
so closely with the fate of a woman almost a stranger to
him, he could hardly have replied. His first chivalrous
interest had grown into a sentimental fancy, that was all ;
and being a man of very determined prepossessions, espe-
cially where his great hobby concerning Womanhood was
concerned, he had been led on and on, from one phase of
feeling to another, till his interest in Madeline became
very like a strong ideal passion. Like all the world, he
had heard of her disappearance, and, learning her connec-
tion with Gavrolles, he had a pretty shrewd guess at its
cause. So he had yielded to his overmastering interest
and curiosity, and determined to make the matter a subject
for private, but thorough, inquiry.

Before many days had passed he received a summons
which caused him no little agitation. The chief wanted to
see him at once. Madeline had been discovered, but under
circumstances so dreadful that he scarcely dared to com-
municate them at all to her distracted husband.

CHAPTER XXXVIIL

'CNE MORE UNFOETUNATE.'

On arriving at the inquiry office, Sutherland was at once
shown in to the chief of the establishment, who looked
truly concerned and anxious.

' Glad you've come, sir,' he said at once : ' for perhaps

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 243

you can help me out of my quandary. You got my little
note ? Well, the fact is, I think — I'm almost sure, in
fact — that we've discovered the lady.'

' So you wrote ; but how ? Where ? '

' Well, it's a sad case ! ' murmured the chief with a
shake of the head. ' How we're to break it to the husband,
who is half mad with grief and anxiety, is a puzzler. My
great fear is that the news may get to him before we've
time to break it.'

' Explain ! ' cried Sutherland impatiently.

The chief opened his desk, and took out a large hand-
bill, which he unfolded.

' Just look at this, sir,' he said, while the young man
read it with a shudder. ' This is only a copy of the bill
which the police will have all over London to-morrow,
and perhaps in some of the papers. I've already been
down to Chelsea to make an inspection, and I don't think
there's any mistake about it. What makes it quite clear
is the bracelets. Her Christian name — Mad eline — is graven
inside. — But you're not well, sir. I don't wonder it has
turned you sick. Shall I give you a drop of brandy ? I
have it handy.'

Sutherland, who had turned faint and deadly pale,
recovered himself with an effort.

' Never mind me. Think of him, her husband. You
Bay you haven't communicated with him ? '

' No, sir. It was only found early this morning, and
the moment I heard of the discovery I sent straight to you.'

' But the police '

' I've squared that. They won't send to him to-night
without communicating with me.'

' The shock will be frightful — enough to kill him.'

' No doubt of that, but there's no help for it — he must
know.'

' The first thing to do is to make certain of the identity.
The description may be misleading. I suppose I can see
her?'

' Yes, sir, returned the chief with alacrity. ' If you
^ke I'll go doAvn with you at once.'

A few minutes later Sutherland and the inquiry officer
were rattling down towards Putney in a hansom cab. It
b2

244 MARTrRDOM OF MADELINE.

was a dark and dismal afternoon in autumn, and as they
rapidly passed the gates of Hyde Park the leafless trees
looked desolate through a thin mist of rain. To the eye
of Edgar Sutherland everything was sombre and dreadful,
dark with tragic shadows of sin and death.

They drove through Knightsbridge to Hammersmith,
then crossing Hammersmith Bridge, beneath which the
river rolled black and sinister, came into the gloomy pur-
lieus of a desolate waterside suburb. It was now growing
dark, and the street lamp?, which were few and far between,
flashed dismally on cheerless brand-new villas, for the most
part untenanted and faced with boards ' To Let,' gloomy
gardens, dark brickfields, and spaces of damp meadow
stretching down to. the river side. Plere and there a tavern
opened its bloodshot eyes, and attracted one or two dreary
moths to its dingy gleam.

After passing through a mile or more of this gloomy
neighbourhood, the cab turned down a narrow street
running at right angles to the river bank.s, and pulled up
before a desolate stone building with the inscription —
'Police Station.'

The officer alighted and led the way into a white-
washed room, lit by a solitary gas jet, and occupied by a
policeman in uniform, who stood at a desk writing.
Wafered on the wall, close to the desk, was a placard
similar to that which Sutherland had already seen, headed
.n bold capitals —

FOUND DEOWNED 1

and giving the description of the body of a female found
that morning by a waterman in the near neighbourhood of
Putney Bridge.

After a few hurried words with the inquiry officer, the
police sergeant turned to Sutherland.

' You wish to identify, sir ? I'm afraid you'll find it a
difficult job. As fer as I can make out, it's been a l.ono-
time in the water.'

Sutherland shuddered as the sergeant, in the most
business-like way possible, took down a key from a nail
and led the way to the back of the building, across a damp
yard, and up to a low wooden door : this he opened
leisurely with his key, and revealed a sort of rude mortuary,

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 245

lit by a gas jet turned so low down as to leave the place
almost in darkness. They entered, and when the sergeant
had leisurely turned up the gas, saw, stretched out upon
a wooden slab, what had once been a living woman.

She lay exactly as she had been found, with clenched
hands and shoeless feet, clad^in a plain dress of serge,
partly torn and eaten away. Eound her shoulders were
the remains of a valuable shawl, firmly secured by a large
common shawl pin. Her head was bare, and the loose,
fair hair, tangled and twisted in moist knots, hung around
the disfigured lineaments of a skeletonian face. So horrible
was this face, so unrecognisable in its lost humanity, that
Sutherland almost swooned as he looked upon it. Alas,
what likeness of living flesh and blood could he discover
there ?

' She must have been drifting up and down for weeks,'
said the sergeant with professional stolidity ; ' and I suppose
last night's high tide brought her up this way, and carried
her into the shallows. There isn't much remaining of the
poor creature except clothes, sir ; and her own father could
scarcely know her. Seems to have been a fine woman,
and quite young, though it's hard to tell even that.'

'There's a ring on her finger,' cried Sutherland — ' a
wedding-ring? '

'Yes,' returned the sergeant, 'and I understand the
missing lady was married. But I shouldn't go too much
by that, sir. Most of the unfortunates who make a hole
in the water wear wedding-rings. But these bracelets
now, there's no mistaking them. Just look, sir.'

As he spoke, the sergeant took from a slab at the
corpse's side one or two elegant bracelets, greatly tarnished
by the water, but of solid gold.

' We took them ofi" and had them cleaned for identifica-
tion ; they were in a shocking state, sir, and had worked
right into the bone.'

Sutherland took the bracelet, and uttered a horrified
exclamation, as he deciphered, cut clearly on the solid sur-
fiice, these words —

To Dear Madeline.

A birthday gift from tier sister,

Margaret Forstfr,

246 MAMTYBSOM OF MADELINE.

At that very moment, as Sutherland stood looking at
the bracelets and feeling his heart turn sick within him, a
figgure flitted in through the open door, and, pushing the
two other men aside, gazed on the corpse with a face almost
as terrible, almost as ghastly, as its own. The inquiry
officer recognised James Forster in a moment, and made a
movement as if to intercept his view of the dead woman,
but in an instant he was on his knees, gazing wildly into
the cold disfigured face, and stretching out his arms in
horrified entreaty and recognition.
'Madeline ! My darling !'
The wild cry rang out in the desolate place, with a
tone of infinite agony and woe.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

DUST TO DUST.

Let us draw a veil over the horrors and sorrows of that
night. It is enough to say that the distracted husband,
■when he had recovered from the first paralysing shock of
the spectacle, recognised without hesitation in the distorted
and disfigured mass the remains of his beloved wife. But,
indeed, there was no room for doubt. The form and com-
plexion were the same, and the bracelets with their inscrip-
tion placed the identity beyond question. Not' without
difficulty did Sutherland and the police officials persuade
Forster to leave the corpse's side. He would fain have
remained by it, watching and praying, till daybreak ; but
at last they prevailed, and Sutherland helped him home.
His grief was, indeed, piteous to behold. After the first
wild ebullition, he scarcely wept ; his face was like a stone,
set in horror and despair ; only from to time he uttered a
vrild,heart-rending moan, and shivered through all his frame
like a man struck by ague. So he was led home to his lonely
house, to the care of his sister, who was stirred to the depths
for his sake, and watched him with infinite tenderness.

Early the next morning Sutherland called, and Miss
Forster rejoiced to see him and accepted with eagerness his
offer , of personal assistance. All nia;ht long her brother

MAII.TYRDOM OF MADELINE. 247

had remained like one physically crushed and broken,
always conscious and uttering intermittent cries of pain.
At daybreak he would have flown down to Putney, but
they restrained him almost by main force, yet with less
difficulty than might have been anticipated, for his strong
will seemed shattered and all his spirit clouded as by a
frightful dream.

Of course, under the circumstances, a public inquest
was unavoidable. At the inquest, evidence of identity
was given. Eorster claimed the remains as those of his
wife, and a sympathetic jury returned a verdict of ' Acci-
dentally drowned.' Society was for some days slightly
agitated on the subject, the general impression being that
the unfortunate lady, for some unexplained reason, had
committed suicide. For a marvel, the so-called society
journals preserved a decent silence ; the fact being that
Sutherland, in his capacity of self-constituted champion,
had interviewed both Lagardere and Yahoo, and extracted
from them, jointly and severally, a promise to abstain from
any immediate allusions to the case. How he effected this
object has never been disclosed ; but he was, as we know,
a determined man, and possibly the gentlemen perceived
that publication would make a corporal chastisement in-
evitable. They were the more willing to forego their usual
carrion as they were greatly exercising their readers at
that time in speculations as to whether a certain Italian
prima donna who shall be nameless was or was 'not the
daughter of an itinerant pieman in the Seven Dials, and
as to what were the precise relations between the Prince of
Scotland and Mademoiselle Schwangau, the charming
topical singer of the Parisian cafe's chantants.

So it came to pass that the poor remains, in a sealed
coffin, were taken to Queen's Gate, and remained there
until the day fixed for a quiet funeral. Most of the
necessary arrangements were superintended by Sutherland,
■who had, as if almost by right, quietly established himself
as a, friend of the family. The brother and sister accepted
his services gratefully, and almost without a word of
explanation.

The funeral took place at Kensal Green. The only
followers were Forster and his new acquaintance. At the

248 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

gi-ave the former utterly broke down, his wild tears flow-
ing for the first time.

The two men returned to Forster's house together.

' I shall never forget your kindness,' said Forster,
during an interval of comparative calmness. ' May God
bless you for it 1 I am a broken man now, and have no-
thing left to live for ; but while I live let us be friends.'

And he wrung the young man's hands.

' You have nothing to thank me for,' replied Suther-
land. ' What I have done for you, I would, of course, do
for any fellow-man in distress. But I had a deep respect,
a profound sympathy, for your wife.'

' Though, as I understand, you scarcely knev/^ her,' said
Forster, not without a certain wistful curiosity.

' I could not be said to know her at all. We met twice
or thrice, almost as strangers, and then I saw her perform-
ances at the Parthenon.'

'We were so happy,' cried Forster, with a sudden
access of passionate emotion ; ' and she was so good ! All
goodness — all goodness ! God knows under what miscon-
ceptions she left my roof. But I know she had an enemy,
and perhaps '

' Can you bear to speak of that ! ' interrupted Suther-
land. ' Hitherto I have forborne from touching on the
subject, but with your permission I should like to say a
few words now.'

' Do so — I will try to attend.'

' You are aware that Mrs. Forster was acquainted with
a Frenchman, named Gavrolles, now in London ? '

' Yes.'

' Do you know — forgive me if I pain you — the nature
of her relations with him ? '

' I think I do,' returned Forster. ' Before my darling's
guardian died, he confided to me that, when quite a child,
she had been betrayed into a mock marriage with a,
foreigner, who almost immediately abandoned her. I
knew this when I married her. I have no doubt that this
Gavrolles is the same man ; that he again thrust himself
in her way ; that, in order to avoid him, and dreading some
misunderstanding on my part, she yielded to » wild im-
piilse and — p,nd t

MARTYRDOM OF MABELINB. 2i0

But here Forster broke down sobbing, and hid his face
in his hands. Deeply moved, Sutherland touched him
gently on the shoulder, as he said : — ■

' I think it has all been as you say. With regard to
Mrs. Forster's first acquaintance with this man; I can my-
self tell you something which will, I think, convince you
of her innocence in the matter.' Sutherland thereupon
briefly recounted his first meeting with Madeline in the
hotel at Fecamp, his suspicions of her companions, his
offers of assistance; and explained also briefly the part he
had taken afterwards, when they met again in Paris — say-
ing nothing, however, of his own temporary misconception
of Madeline's true character, but describing the manner
in which, on her abandonment by her pseudo-husband, he
had restored her into the hands of hsr guardian.

' That is all I know,' he said in conclusion, ' and I
think it is enough to justify you in your noble faith in
Mrs. Forster's honour. From first to last, when a mere
child, she was this man's victim, and so sure as there is a
God above us, her death lies at his door.'

Trembling with agitation, Forster rose to his feet.

' Where is he 7 Let me see him ! Yes, you are
right — he has killed her. Tell me where he is, that I may
find him out, and '

At this moment a servant entered, bearing a card. A
gentleman, he said, was waiting below desirous of seeing
Mr, Forster on most important business. Almost mecha-
nically Forster took the card and glanced at it. As he
read the inscription upon it, he uttered a sharp cry and
turned deathly pale.

Graven on the card, in fantastic letters, with many
characteristic flourishes, was the name —

M. Auguste de Gavrolles.

The first shock of surprise over, Forster glanced up and
found that Sutherland's eyes were bent inquiringly upon
his. He handed him the card.

' My wish has been answered,' he , said with ominous
calmness. ' The very man I most wished to see is here,
only I had rather the meeting had taiken place beneath any

250 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

roof but mine ; ' then turning to the servant, he added
' Show the person into the drawing-room, and say I will
come totim.'

The servant retired, and once more Sutherland and
Forster were left alone. Sutherland stood as if transfixed,
with the elegant piece of pasteboard bearing the French-
man's name held still before his eyes ; while Forster, bereft
now of all his calmness, paced excitedly up and down the
room. The sight of the Frenchman's name at such a time
almost transformed him into a madman. Trembling from
head to foot, yet pale as death, he at last rushed to the
door, when Sutherland laid his hand upon his shoulder to
detain him.

' I see you have made up your mind to meet the man.'

' I have.'

' Well, so far I think you have done well, but before
you meet him will you listen to some advice from me ? '

' What do you want me to do ? '

' Nothing against your own interest or hers. I know
that if you had descended the stairs two minutes ago you
would either have strangled this Frenchman or thrashed
him within an inch of his life. Your conduct would have
been justifiable, but not wise. You yourself would have
regretted it before the morning. Be sure retribution shall
come to him, though it may not come to-night. Now, I
want you to forget for a time that this scoundrel ever
intended the shghtest harm to your dead wife.'

' My God 1 '

' I know the task will be a hard one, but remember it
is for her sake. So far he has played his cards well. He
knows even now that his person is sacred, because, if in
your grief and anger you were tempted to assault him, you
would only be the means of scandalising the name of the
departed.'

' Mr. Sutherland, what does all this mean ? '

' Only this. I want you to do me a favour. Will,
you ? Yes or no ? '

' Yes, certainly, if I can.'

' Let me stiU be the champion of your wife ? '

' What 1 '

* It is for her sake, remember. She shall be avenged

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 251

but she must not be scandalised. This Frenclimau has
some deep motive in coming here. It would be well for
both our sakes that I should learn what this motive is.
Will you interview him in this room, and conceal me in
some place where I can hear your conversation ? '

At first Forster protested. To meet the Frenchman in a
seemingly amiable spirit seemed beyond him, but Suther-
land was so urgent in his pleading that at length his point
was won. Forster yielded for Madeline's sake.

There was a small lavatory adjoining the study — into
this Sutherland retired, leaving the door ajar. Forster by
a tremendous eiFort controlled his agitation, and, ringing
the bell, ordered the Frenchman to be shown in to him.

Gavrolles entered the room.

He was neatly clad in black, and on his white face
there was a grave look of sorrow. As the door closed
behind him, he stepped daintily forward to where Forster
sat, and as he did so a sickly perfume seemed to penetrate
the whole atmosphere. Forster raised bis head, looked at
the Frenchman's outstretched hand, but did not move.

'Ah, monsieur,' ' exclamed Gavrolles, 'how shall I
thank you for this interview ? I know, monsieur, I must
be de trap at such a time as this, but I am as it were a
mere machine. I follow not my own inclinations, but the
force of circumstances ; they have brought me here.'

' Is this what you have come to say to me ? ' asked
Forster coldly.

' Not all, by no means all,' returned the Frenchman
eagerly ; ' but before we proceed to business I must ex-
press to you, monsieur, my deep condolence in a great
affliction which has befallen you ! '

Forster's face grew livid, he half rose from Lis chair ;
then remembering his promise to Sutherland he sank back
again with a groan.

' Be careful,' he said sternly. ' If you come here on
business, pray state it without further preamble; at all
events be good enough not to allude again to my domestic
affairs.'

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and turned
upon Forster a pair of eyes lit with a sickly sinister light.

' Pardon, monsieur,' he returned blandly. ' I am

252 MAllTTROOM OF MADELINE.

sorry if I have pained you — but in this world it is not the
fortune of any one that his path should be all sunshine.
Though it is much against my inclination, it is of your
affairs that I must speak. Listen, monsieur. A little bird
has already whispered abroad that Auguste de GavroUes
and Madame Forster were acquainted. Having learned to
much, the curious are naturally anxious to hear more.
They love romances. Here is one ready made, they say,
but there is only one man who can tell it truly ; and that
man is Gavrolles. Accordingly Gavrolles is besieged.
Well, he does not wish to speak, for though he has been
maligned he is' a man of honour and an artiste. He is on
the horns of a dilemma. The only course for him to take
would be to travel far away, but he is a poor man, and
without money one can do nothing — absolutely nothing.
Do you understand, monsieur ? '

Forster shook his head.

' I confess I do not.'

' Then I must speak more plainly. Would it not be
well, if you said to me, " Monsieur Gavrolles, since I am a
rich man, it shall not be for the want of a little filthy lucre
that my wife's name is unpleasantly discussed. You shall
not want the means to move away." '

He paused, and for a moment there was silence. The
Frenchman's face went very pale, his smile became even
more baleful, as he saw Forster rise slowly from his seat
and point to the door.

' That is enough,' he exclaimed ; ' leave my house. If
we stood face to face beneath any other roof but mine, I'd
kill you like a dog.'

' Monsieur, you do not understand.'

' Not understand 1 You villain, I understand too well.
I know what you have done. I know what you would do.
You made my wife's life a hell ; you tortured her into her
grave ; and now instead of feeling any pity for your vic-
tim, you come to me and ask me to pay you money to keep
you from slandering her name. Leave my house, or as
sure as there is a God above us I'll have you whipped like
a cur into the street ! '

Forster was trembling from head to foot with rage.
The Frenchman, who was still cool, turned to speak, but

mamtyhdom of madelinis. 253

one look in the other's face silenced him. He made two
steps towards the door ; then he paused. He felt in his
pocket, drew forth a card, wrote rapidly upon it, then
turned to Forster again.

' Monsieur,' he said quietl)', ' that is my address for
three days at least. I leave it, in case you may wish to
write to me.'

So saying, and with a profound bow, he took his leave.

Scarcely had the door closed upon the Frenchman
when Sutherland burst excitedly into the room.

' Mr. Forster,' he said, ' once more will you do me a
favour for your wife's sake ? '

But Forster seemed deaf to his words. He sank into
his chair, murmuring, in heart-broken tones —

' Madeline 1 my poor murdered wife ! '

' Pray, listen to me. Send the scoundrel the money-
let him have his price — conditionally ! '

' You advise me to do this ? '

'I do.'

He bent down and whispered in Forster's ear—
Forster started — the two men looked' at each other,

After some hesitation Forster spoke.

' He shall have the money 1 ' he said.

' And you will make those conditions ? '

' Certainly.'

Forster sat down at once, and wrote a note to Gavrolles.
In it he said that he (Gavrolles) should be supplied with a
certain sum, if he would pledge himself to return at once
to France,

CHAPTER XL.

* KESUr.OAM.'

On a sombre autumn afternoon, the solitary figure of a
woman stood looking backward and westward, towards the
round red ball of the sun, which was sinking slowly into
the very heart, as it were, of the great far-away cloud
which she knew was London.

All around her, on every side, stretched desolate
marshes, silent save for the hoarse cry of a heron flapping

254 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

slowly towards his crimson fishing pools, or for the faint
forlorn whistle of a distant curlew. No other human
figure was in sight, not even a human habitation ; but
over the trees of a lonely plantation, skirting the marshes
to the southward, the spire of Grayfleet Church glittered
back the rays of the setting sun.

The woman, though pale and haggard, was young
and beautiful ; and as she watched the far-off sunset its
dim ray touched her cheeks with a faint tinge of red. She
stood like one in a dream, shading her eyes and gazing on
the dusky pageant — cloud, smoke, and mist irradiated into
gloomy splendour, and assuming, as the fancy willed, strange
forms of crumbling buildings, fiery streets, columns, roois,
arches, spires, and turrets, all duskily aflame.

It did not seem rsal ; no more real than the city she
had left behind her, than the grave from which she hadrisen
into some dimmer and sadder life. Yet her eyes dimmed
with tears as she thought of one solitary figure waiting
lonely and despairing yonder, listening for a foot that came
not, praying for a love cast away and lost.

Nothing seemed real ; not the cloudy pageant, or the
darkening sun, or the desolate earth ; not the life that she
had lived, or the life that she had voluntarily left behind ;
not the long years of a confused and broken experience,
chiefly of helplessness and sorrow ; nothing but the cling-
ing, contaminating sense of some great sin and shame. Aa
a creature half choked and drowned, just dragged living
out of some watery ooze, with all the foul moisture and
the slimy filth clinging to her garments, this woman seemed
and felt. The consciousness of a complete moral contami-
nation, fi'om which she had barely emerged, still remained
with her, and not all the perfumes of Arabia could have
cleansed it away.

She had been wandering in that dreary district for
days, sleeping at night in lonely farmhouses and squalid
inns, and ever creeping out in the early dawn to follow
some aimless pilgrimage she scarcely knev^ whither. Yet
all that afternoon she had been hanging around Grayfleet,
looking in vain for some face that she might know and
remember. She had stood gazing sadly at the little row
of white-washed cottages where Mark and Luke Peartree

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. S55

once had dwelt ; but strange folk now lived there, anJ the
name of Peartree was quite forgotten. She had looked
at the shining river, and she had seen, in a dream, the boat
rowing in with its maimed and broken burden, while
Uncle Luke stood in the bow wringing his hands. She
had wandered into the old churchyard and looked in upon
the very tombs where a troop of merry girls were play,
ing, one happy Sabbath, so many years ago. Ah, that
sweet, that far-off, half-forgotten life — was it all a dream
too?

Tramps and wanderers of all kinds were common in
those parts, and few had paid any attention to the pale
worn woman, plainly and poorly clad, who haunted the
old village that afternoon. Now and then she had received
a country greeting, and quietly replied. She had entered
the Ferry Inn, and bought some bread and cheese, and
while making her poor meal she had tried to question the
landlord, a rough waterside character, about people she
remembered. But he was a stranger where all seemed
strangers. Then her feet had strayed again to the old
churchyard, and this time she had strolled through the
gate and searched among the graves. But she found no
headstone or memorial to show her where Mark Peartree
was lying, or where slept the kindly dame who had followed
him so soon.

So the day passed, and in the afternoon she had come
out again upon the lonely marshes, where she now stood
watching the smoky sun.

Ah, yes, it must all have been a dream. Wandering
out of the great city, fearful of pursuit, with no definite
aim or hopes save that of forgetting and of being forgot,
she had strayed half unconsciously towards the old land-
marks — towards the only spot in the world where she had
known a happy and peaceful time. What impulse had
brought her thither she could scarcely divine ; it was an
instinct that sometimes brings the bird to its deserted nest,
the hare to its long-abandoned form. She herself quite
knew that it was hopeless. She knew that the little house-
hold at Grayfleet had been desolate for years ; and that
the only surviving member of it, if indeed he still sur-
vived, was Luke Peartree, after whose whereabouts una-

256 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

vailing inquiries bad been made again and again. After
Madeline Hazelmere was sent to France she had beard
nothing of her uncle ; then her great trouble bad come,
and in its shadow, while it lasted, all else was forgotten;
but once more, after her return to England, she had trie'i
to discover poor Uncle Luke's whereabouts — always in
vain.

Turning her back at last on the sullen sunset, the woman
wandered slowly along the narrow road wliich wound and
wound for miles and miles, seaward, through the marshes.
In the near distance on her right hand moved great sails,
tall masts, smoking funnels, going and coming with a
strange silentness ; for the river was there, sunk so low
down in its muddy bed that the traffic moving upon it had
this curious appearance, as of ghostly objects moving to
and fro, in, silhouette, upon the solid earth.

She walked on and on still as if in a dream, and still
with the sense of a suffocating taint. The sun sank into
the sombre cloud of the distant city; darkness descended
upon and rose from the marshes, save where here and
there a roadside pool flatbed duskily ; and still she walked
on.

The moon rose large and yellow out of the far-off sea,
and the air became full of a visible and delicate dimness.
So dense was the stillness, so sad the darkening prospect
all around, that now, more than ever, the woman seemed
walking in a dead world, a world of weariful dreams.

At last she reached another village, lying close down
by the riverside. It was a small place, strongly saturated
with brackish moisture, and much frequented by forlorn
seagulls of a ragged species, too lazy and disreputable to
earn a decent living out at sea. Here, in a peasant woman's
house, she procured a bed, or rather a ' shake down ' before
the kitchen fire. The woman, a childless widow, stolid
with ill fortune, dazed with a life of wretchedness, asked
no questions, and seemed to note little difference between
this delicate-skinned white-handed wanderer and tramps
of the common sort.

Early next morning she was away again, in broken
aimless flight.

But it was at last evident that the physical frame of

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 257

tliis woman was unable to bear the strain put upon it by
her impatient and apparently indomitable spirit. Her
walk was weary and unsure, and very often she paused to
rest ; her breath came and went heavily ; and in a word,
her trembling frame and aching limba betokened that her
strength was failing fast.

About midday a country fellow, driving a light farm
oart, passed her, looked back, paused, drove on again,
paused once more, and finally waited till she came up ;
then, after looking at her curiously fi:om head to foot,
accosted her aa follows : —

' Missis I Be you a-going to Seachester 7 '

She did not know the name, but scarcely knowing
what she did she answered in the affirmative.

' Ah ! — ^Do you know, missis, how far it be 7 '

She shook her head.

' From London, I s'pose ? '

She did not answer, and he continued :^

' Well, it be seven miles, missis, to Seachester, and sure
enough you seem dead beat. Telee what, missis ! I'U give
you a lift along.'

Weary and overpowered, she accepted his offer, and
with his assistance she climbed into they cart. They jogged
along slowly, for the roads were heavy and clogged with
mud. Prom time to time the man looked at her, survey-
ing her quietly from head to foot, noting with no little
surprise her delicate form, her small hands, her beautiful
lace. More than once he seemed about to question her,
but refrained. To avoid meeting his inquisitive gaze, she
closed her eyes, and presently, through sheer fatigue, .she
fell into a heavy doze.

She was wakened by a hoarse voice in her ear : —

' Now, then, missis, here we be 1 '

She stirred, opened her eyes, and saw that they were
standing near to a very small village, not far from a great
water, the river or the sea. Shivering, and dazed, she
alighted from the cart, and taking out a small purse
offered the man a piece of silver.

' Noa, keep your money, missis,' he said, with a stern
shake of his head. ' Look, now, this be Seachester, and
up there be the house where you're a-going.'

B

268 MARTYMBOM OF MADELINE.

He pointed as he spoke to a small cottage, like a lodge,
standing surrounded by trees, at the gate of a kind of
avenue.

' The house ? ' she echoed. ' Do you mean where they
will give me a night's lodging ? '

He looked at her with a curious expression, indicative
of rural suspicion.

' You're like the rest on 'em, missis ! You know well
enough where you're a-coming, but you won't let on to
know. Never mind, you ain't the fust by many as has
had a lift in my old cart. There, go up right through that
gate, missis, and they'll give you a night's lodgings, never
fear ! '

So saying, with a grim nod, the countryman drove
away, leaving the woman perplexed and even alarmed.

What could he mean ? Could he have any suspicion
that she was a fugitive ? She was too dazed and weak
quite to understand, or even heed his mysterious allusions.
A sickening weight was on her heart, and though her
hands and feet were stony cold, her frame was on fire.
She stood tottering, as if about to faint.

It was again afternoon, and the red sunlight fell on the
little lodge and on the long avenue beyond, overshadowed
with sere and yellow trees. Tie place seemed stiU and
peaceful. She crept nearer, and presently stood with her
face against the iron gate, looking in.

As she stood thus, there came on her ear the sound of
female voices ; and she saw approaching down the avenue,
a troop of about thirty women walking in couples, talking
and laughing as they came along. They were plainly
dressed, for the most part in plain stuff dresses and dark
shawls, and each wore a tight-fitting bonnet of the same
description. On they came, chattering like children.
Most of them, even in their not too becoming costume,
Bhowed the signs of personal comeliness, and a few were
really pretty.

Suddenly they turned into a side path and disappeared.
The sound of their voices died quietly away among the
trees.

Trembling and wondering, the woman opened the iron
gate and approached the door of the lodge. She knocked

MARTTBDOM OF MADELINE. 259

feebly, but in a moment the door was opened, and a good-
looking country dame, very clean and briglit, stood on the
threshold.

' Can I — can I — ' — the wanderer began feebly, but
breath failed her, and she stood trembling.

' Come in, my dear,' said the woman compassionately,
leading her to a chair in a cosy little kitchen. ' Come in,
and welcome. Lord, how pale you be I Have you come
far?'

' Yes. I want '

' Never mind about that, now — wait till I get thee a
nice drink of warm milk, and then you can go on the
Home.'

But even as she spoke the wanderer fainted away.

The good dame uttered an exclamation.

' Poor dear, she's fainted. How wet and draggled she
be ! Why, she must have tramped it all the way. Here,
Johnnie — Johnnie ! '

A flaxen-haired boy of about twelve appeared on the
threshold.

' Eun up to the house, quick, and ask Sister Ursula,
with mother's compliments, to step down here at once.
Poor unfortunate,' she continued, chafing the woman's
fingers, ' what pretty white hands she has 1 She looks
like a lady born 1 '

CHAPTER XLI.

THE SISTERS OF MOUNT EDEN.

A CONSIDERABLE interval of time must have passed from the
moment when the woman recovered consciousness ; for on
opening her eyes she found herself lying in bed, in a large,
dimly lighted room. The bed was white and clean, with
snowy hangings, and the chamber contained four other beds
of the same description. The curtains of the window were
closely drawn, and on the hearth there burnt a cheerful
fire.

Seated close to the bedside was a young girl, dressed
like a nurse, in clean white cap, white apron and cotton
gown, and reading a book.

83

260 MARTYRDOM OF MABELINE.

For some minutes the wanderer lay silent, not stirring,
tiut looking vacantly around her ; on the cleanly papered
•walls, cosily lit by the firelight : on the engraving of the
Cruciiixion, hanging over the mantelpiece ; on the snowy
beds, at the head of each of which hung a picture of the
Madonna — each different, but all copies from the works of
Eaphael ; and finally, on the quiet, thoughtful-looking girl,
who sat intent upon her book.

At last, thoroughly awakened, she uttered an exclama-
tion. The girl looked up, and their eyes met.

' Where am I ? What place is this 7 Why am I lying
here ? '

The girl smiled, and, without answering, touched a
handbell standing on a small table at her side. Scarcely
had she done so when a tall, slight figure, also wearing a
white cap, entered the room. Her hair w^as quite white,
but her face seemed fresh and yoimg ; and her eyes had a
cold virginal steadfastness which harmonised well with the
lines of a mouth firm almost to hardness. No sooner,
however, did her gaze fall upon the occupant of the bed-
than her face was lit by a smile of strange brightness and
sweetness ; the coldness passed from her eyes, the lines of
her mouth grew soft and tender ; and her whole expres-
sion was transformed into one of^ winning kindness and
beauty.

The girl rose and curtsied as the newcomer advanced
to the bedside.

' You are better now ? '

The wanderer looked up wildly, scrutinising the kind
thoughtful face which was bending over her.

' Where am I ? ' she cried again. ' What place ia
this ? '

' You are among friends,' was the .quiet reply.

' In the hospital ? Have I been iU ? '

' You were faint and weak when they brought you in,
and afterwards you fell into a sleep.'

' Yes, I remember — but this place, and you ? I do not
know you.'

' I am Sister Ursula. Perhaps you have heard my
name ? '

'No.'

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINB. 261

' Nor the name of this place — Mount Eden ? '

' No 1 no 1 ' cried the wanderer, in surprise.

' You are welcome all the same ; but, before we talk
any more, let Barbara ' — here Barbara, as the young girl
was called, curtsied — ' bring you some warm soup, or
some tea and toast. I am sure you are weak from want of
food.'

At first the invalid, confused and to some extent
alarmed by her position, refused to take any sustenance,
but Sister Ursula, with gentle firmness, at last persuaded
her to drink some warm tea and eat a little dry toast.
When she had done so, and Barbara, at a signal from her
superior, had retired. Sister Ursula sat quietly down by
the bedside.

' And now, may I ask you a few questions about your-
self? Do not think I speak from mere curiosity, and do
not answer anjrthing unless you please. In the first place,
am I right in guessing that you are in trouble ? '

'Yes.'

As she answered, almost under her breath, the wanderer
kept her large, wistful, watchful eyes fixed, with strange
intensity, on the Sister's. face.

' Next, may I ask your name ? '

There was a long pause, but at last, in the same low
tone, the answer came —

' Jane Peartree.'

' Well, Jane (may I call you Jane ? it is our habit in
this place to call each other by the Christian name), I do
not wish to inquire into your history, until you choose to
tell me it, or any portion of it. What I wish you to do
is to regard me and all here as friends .and sufferers like
yourself, sisters in sorrow and in heavenly hope. You will
rest here, certain of help and sympathy, until such a time
as you feel strong enough to face the world again. By-
the-bye, are you a Londoner? '

' No ; I was born in the country.'

' And you have lived '

' Do not ask me ! I cannot tell ! '

And as she spoke, she turned her face upon the pillow,
crying.

' You shall tell me nothing,' said the lady softly, ' until

262 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINM.

you wish it of your own freewill. I can see that you have
had sorrow, great sorrow ; and that, unlike so many who
come here, your speech is gentle, and your manner that of
a lady. Take courage ! Whatever your offence has been,
whatever pain you have undergone, you are as safe now as
a little chUd on its mother's breast — no one can temp.t you,
no one can harm you, here.'

The wanderer turned her face again, and looked long
and wistfully at the Sister ; then she sighed deeply, while
her tears still fell.

' You have not told me what place this is, but I sup-
pose it is some religious home. Well, I am not religious ;
I scarcely know what religion is. All I ask is a night's
shelter, and then — ^I will pay you for it, and go away.'

Sister Ursula's face looked very grave.

' We never accept payment from those who take shelter
here ; and you are mistaken — this is not a religious house
in the sense you mean. True, we believe in one God and
one Redeemer, and our experience teaches us that, for the
truly sorrowful and penitent, knowledge of Christ the
Saviour is the only preservation.'

The wanderer sighed drearily.

'You are Roman Catholics, I suppose?' she said, with
a curious indifference. 'I have heard they are good
people.'

' We are of all religions,' returned Sister Ursula, smiling;
' that is to say, the unfortunate are welcome here, what-
ever their creed. I myself am a member of the Church of
England, but some of our inmates are Catholics, others
Dissenters, many, like yourself, of no particular persuasion.
We do not insist on these things. Our love and sympathy
are for all the world.'

'And the house is — not a religious house? What
then?'

' A refuge for sisters who have fallen, and who repent.'

The wanderer shuddered, for she had read of such
places ; then, after a moment, she gave a low, faint, bitter
laugh.

' How stupid I was not to understand ! And you think
I am one of those — those women ? '

' I think, Jane, that you have a great trouble, whatever

MARTYRDOM OF MABELINE. 263

it has been ; but do not think I am judging you, or wish-
ing to proclaim your fault. Whatever you are, I am no
better than yourself. Twenty years ago I left a good
husband, and lived in wickedness and shame with another
man, who afterwards abandoned me. I have suffered a
great deal, though no more than I deserve.'

Raising herself upon her elbow, the woman calling her-
self Jane Peartree gazed in amazement at the calm grey
sister, who, without a tremor in her voice, coldly pro-
claimed her own sin to a stranger.

' I am no better than the worst here,' said Sister Ursula;
' but my own experience has helped me to be of service to
those who, like myself, have sinned and suffered. Many
here are infinitely my superiors insomuch as they have
suffered, and been dragged into pollution, through no fault
of their own.'

As she spoke, a bell sounded in the distance, and a
sound of footsteps was heard upon the staircase beyond
the chamber. The door stood open, and Jane Peartre'e
saw numerous female figures, all clad in white caps and
aprons, pass quickly by. Several looked in, smiling at
Sister Ursula, and cried, ' Good-night.' Then four young
women, clad like the others, entered that chamber, curtsey-
ing and looking curiously at the stranger.

' It is ten o'clock,' said Sister Ursula, rising, ' and bed-
time. We breakfast early, at half -past seven, but you are
weak and must not attempt to get up. Good-night, Jane.'

Stooping gently, the lady kissed Jane Peartree on the
forehead, and then, with a bright good-night to the others,
left the room, closing the door behind her.

Jane lay still, and looked at her companions, who were
slowly undressing by the light of a small lamp. The
eldest was about eight-and- twenty, the youngest not much
over eighteen ; and, with one exception, they showed no
refinement either of appearance or of manner, and clearly
belonged to that portion of the lower orders from which
SQciety recruits its domestic servants. The exception was
a pale, slander girl, obviously in delicate health, who ex-
changed but few remarks with her companions, and spoke,
when she did speak, with a strong French accent. She
sat oa the side of the bed, slowly removing her outer

264 MARTYBDOM 01 MADELINM.

garments, and breathing heavily, while the others chattered
in low tones to each other and occasionally gave vent to a
vacant giggling laugh.

Presently her eyes met those of Jane Peartree, and
after a moment's hesitation she walked across the room and
•stood by the bedside.

' Pardon, mademoiselle,' she said gently, ' but you are
not well, and you are a stranger. Can I get you anything ? '

Jane shook her head ; then, seeing <;he other hesitate,
and being attracted by her foreign grape, she asked, in her
own tongue —

' Are you French 7 '

The girl's face brightened strangely at the sound of her
native language.

' Ko, mademoiselle ; I am Belgian. I came from near
Brussels.'

' What's your name ? '

' Ad61e, mademoiselle.'

' Have you been long here — in this house, I mean ? '

' Not long — a few weeks. I was sick, and in need of
country air, and a kind friend (ah, the kindest in the world)
had me sent down here. It is very pleasant all around,
and reminds me of my home, and Sister Ursula is so good,
but there are many here whom you would detest. Tou,
mademoiselle, are different ; I saw that at a glance ; for
abroad we can tell a lady always from one of these
canaille ! '

The girl spoke rapidly in her own language, while her
companions, attracted by the foreign speech, listened with-
out understanding a word, whispered, and made signs to
each other.

' You mistake , I am no lady,' cried Jane Peartree,

eagerly.

Without contradicting her in speech, the French girl
smiled sceptically and shook her head. She then began to
prattle on, with the fluency of her race, until the new
comer, sometimes listening and sometimes questioning, was
furnished at last with a tolerably complete account of the
house into which she had accidentally been brought, and
of the individuals by whom she was surrounded.

The house, as she had already been informed, was

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 36S

called Mount Eden, and it formed the centre of a small
estate, consisting of woods, arable and grazing fields, farm
buildings, and outlying cottages. Originally an old country
manor, it had about ten years before come into the market,
and had been purchased by the lady named Sister Ursula
(partly out of a large inheritance of her own, and partly
by means of voluntary subscription) for the purpose of
founding in it a home for penitent and fallen women.
The scheme on which the establishment was based was
unusually wide and broad in its provisions. In the
first place there were no religious barriers, and in the
second place there was no attempt made to imitate the
severe ethics of the penitentiary. The place was, in the
truest sense, a Home. All the inmates, if in good health,
were required to work in some way — generally in the way
to which they had been best accustomed ; some performing
the higher or lower household duties ; others working in
the laundry ; others, again, doing dairy and field work on
the home farm — all in fact being occupied pleasantly and
profitably, with a goodly share of interest in the result of
their own labours. No attempt was made at any irritating
supervision of the morals of the inmates ; once admitted it
was taken for granted that they were tired of evil doing,
at any rate for the time being, and that it was unnecessary
to preach to them, six days out of seven, on the wickedness
of their ways. At the same time they were daily brought
into contact with sound, sweet, and beautiful associations.
A special feature of the establishment, copied from
some of the Magdalen institutions in France, was the re-
ception — particularly in the summer season — of sick and
delicate children, many of them babes in arms, from the
neighbouring city. These children were distributed among
the poor sisters, and it was wonderful to see with what
eagerness they were received, with what tenderness they
were guarded, by these kind foster-mothers. Many a
helplessly degraded woman, on whom all their holy in-
fluences had been unavailing, was saved and consecrated
by 'tie necessity of tending a child ; many an evil creature
felt for the first time, with tiny arms clinging round her
neck, the instincts of a pure maternity and the inspiration
of a heavenly hope.

866 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

Another rule, to which indeed the foregoing was a
lendant, gave to an inmate, if a mother, the privilege of
Cringing her own offspring with her, and of rearing it in
the house. No attempt, was made to separate mother and
child. No penitentiary laws were in existence, based upon
the assumption that the former was an alien, and the latter
a ' child of sin.'

Sister Ursula herself was the younger daughter of a
peer of the realm. In her girlhood she had made a
marriage, unfortunate in a worldly point of view, and had
completed her folly by afterwards forming an attachment
for an officer, with whom she eloped. Few, however, would
have traced in that calm, cold face the record of strong
passions and improprieties, if the lady herself had not, with
a curious persistency, insisted on making no secret of her
own sin ; her theory being that one who had herself been
a sinner, and sadly acquainted with the world's sorrows
and temptations, was better qualified to deal with fellow-
sinners than the most irreproachable of female saints.

During the night the wanderer snatched a troubled
sleep, starting up at times to listen to the wind which shook
the windows, and to gaze wildly round the dark room:
but towards morning she slept quite soundly. She was
awakened by the loud ringing of a bell in the hall below ;
and, opening her eyes, she saw the four companions of her
chamber busy dressing.

No sooner had she awakened than Adfele, who had been
watching her, came over and said gently, in French : —

' I am glad you have slept, mademoiselle.'

Jane Peartree thanked her, and, rising on her elbow,
looked round her, as if preparing to rise also.

' Ah ! but you must not rise,' continued the other.
' It is very early, and Sister Ursula says you are to keep
your bed. Shall I fetch you a cup of tea ? '

Jane Peartree did not reply. She was looking around
her in a vain search for the clothes she had worn the
previous day, and of these there was no sign.

' I must get up,' she said impatiently. ' Call the lady
— tell her I wish to go. I have a long journey before me,
and I cannot remain any longer in this place.'

But even as she spoke her head swam round, and she

MABTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 2G7

Bank shivering back upon her pillow. On her cheeks
there were two hectic spots, her eyes seemed wild and
wandering, and the left pupil of one was widely dilated.

A minute afterwards Sister Ursula entered the room,
and, after a quiet good morning to the other women, bent
over the occupant of the bed.

' Good-morning, Jane,' she said, smiling.

Jane Peartree looked up ; as she did so her face
flushed and her teeth chattered in her head.

' Please let me have my things,' she cried. ' I wish to
go away.'

' So soon ? '

' Yes. They are following me. It will kill me if they
find me. I am quite well. Quick ! Let me go, for
God's sake ! '

Sister Ursula did not reply, but stooping over the
bed took the girl's hand and placed her fingers upon the
pulse, which she found bounding with all the force of
violent fever.

' Take my advice,' she said gravely, ' and stay with us
to-day ; to-morrow> perhaps, you will be strong enough
to go.'

' I am quite strong. I must go now. You have no
right to detain me ! ' cried the wanderer ; and as she
spoke she sat up, looking wildly and even angrily at her
protectress. But it was only for a moment. Her head
swam again, and she sank back shuddering.

' O, madame 1 ' cried Adfele, ' I am afraid she is very

m.'

' Hush ! ' said Sister Ursula. ' Go down, and leave us
alone together.'

The girls, accustomed to obey, left the room in a body,
and Sister Ursula sat down by the bedside.

Jane Peartree lay moaning, and it was soon evident
that her mind was wandering. She made no more attempts
to rise, but murmured wiiaiy to herself. Presently, when
Sister Ursula bent over to speak to her again, she re-
mained with half-closed eyes and made no articulate
reply.

' Poor child,' thought the lady. ' How pretty she
looks, and different to most of those who come to this roof

268 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

for shelter. And she has a secret, which weighs upon her
mind.'

She added, still to herself —

' " Jane Peartree." That was the name she gave me.
Yet the initials upon her linen are " M. F." Who can
she be ? '

CHAPTER XLII.

EXIT GAVEOLLES.

Several weeks after the wandering woman, who called
herself ' Jane Peartree,' became an inmate of Moimt Eden,
thai cosmic creature, Auguste de Gavrolles, author of the
immortal ' Parfums de la Chair,' was entertained at a little
supper in the house of Ponto, the art-critic. The occasion
was an interesting one, originating in the fact that London
was about to lose, for a time at least, the light of the
French poet's presence. Urgent private affairs, no less
than the home-sickness of a great man for the scene of his
struggles and his triumphs, were the reason of his de-
parture. Frankly, as he confessed to his admirers, London
was insufferably bete after the true centre of the universe,
Paris. It contained many choice spirits, notably those
who had nourished their sublime youth with the fiery
fleshliness of the Impeccable Master, but even these could
not compensate for the fine atmosphere of Parisian salons,
the soul-satisfying sunlight of Parisian streets. In a word,
both duty and pleasure beckoned the cosmic creature back
to his Cosmos, and he was compelled, though with a certain
reluctance, to say farewell.

The gathering was a very quiet ona Ponto's house,
situated in the dismally Eesthetio region oi Chiswick, was
a small but elegant artistic villa, furnished in the superbest
spirit of enlightened chilliness and elegant squalor. There,
in a tiny reception room with golden-spotted waUs and a
cerulean ceiling, some dozen gentlemen and about half a
dozen ladies assembled ; among the company being the
young aesthetic poets, Botticelli Jones and Omar Milde ;
Lady Milde, mother of the bard, known in her girlhood as
the fair ' Lachryma ' of the albums ; Gass and Barbius,

MARTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 269

Ponto's brother-critics ; the editor of the ' Megatherium ' ;
Clothilde Max, daughter of the Teutonic patriot, Hermann
Max ; and a few others. The affair was affecting, if not
festive. There were gay spongecakes and nondescript
confectionery on a sidetoard, together with the finest
Marsala wine, for those who sought refreshment. When,
in a few well-chosen words, Ponto wished Godspeed to the
guest of the evening, several persons present were dismally
affected. Gavrolles, more than usually jubilant, replied,
thanking perfidious Albion, in the person of its noblest
representatives, for their cordial treatment of him, a stranger,
an exile. He had come to them on his merits, a poor
artiste, a lover of the beautiful, a pupil of Gautier, and
they had received him as a brother. He should bear back
to his beloved Paris the memory of their kindness. He
should inform his countrymen that Prance and England
were thenceforth bound together by a tie stronger than all
commercial treaties — the tie of sympathy in poetic aspira-
tions, in divine Art. He should tell his compatriots that
even in England, despite its Philistinism, despite its climate,
there were singers as sweet and critics as profound as
even those who possessed the inestimable advantages of a
Parisian education. Need he mention, as a sample of all
that was superb in song, his friend, Botticelli Jones ? Need
he cite, as an example of all that was subtle in perception
and perfect in expression, the name of his friend and
host — nay, might he not Hay, his brother ? — Ponto, prince
of critics?

The lank and limp ladies clung around him, with every
expression of sympathy and affection, until the hour of
parting -came. Then Gavrolles,. with tears in his eyes,
read aloud, with considerable emphasis, a French sonnet
which he had composed for the occasion, and in which the
names of many present were touchingly introduced. This
effusion was afterwards passed from hand to hand until it
reached the editor of the ' Megatherium,' who claimed the
privilege of publishing it in the forthcoming number of
his journal, along with a reply (in the same language)
from Young Botticelli Jones. Pinally, the party separated,
and Gavrolles, triumphant, drove home ta his lodgings in
a hansom cab.

270 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

The next evening, bearing with him in a small port-
manteau and a morocco hand-bag all his worldly goods,
GavroUes left Charing Cross by the night mail, en route for
Boulogne.

It was a wild wintry night, pitch dark, with gusts of
rain and sleet ; even the station looked dreary and forlorn,
despite the pale brilliance of the electric light. Wrapt
in a large travelling cloak, profusely trimmed with fur,
and wearing an artistic felt hat, the broad brim of which
was drawn down over his face, GavroUes strolled up and
down the platform with a theatrical swagger, taking care
to clutch always his little handbag of black morocco.
When the ticket office opened he approached the aperture,
and, opening a purse full of bright new sovereigns, took
a iirst-elass ticket to Boulogne. He looked at nobody,
heeded nobody; hs seemed too obviously wrapt up in his
own happy thoughts. His air, his walk, the feverishly
delighted laugh in which he indulged from time to time,
all seemed to betoken some special good fortune ; and
what wonder, seeing he had that very day cashed a large
open cheque — payable to ' Bearer ' — at a London bank,
and afterwards, at a neighbouring money-changer's, con-
verted the greater portion of the amount into glittering
coin of the French realm.

Perhaps, had he been less jubilant and self-involved,
he might have taken some little notice of his fellow-
passengers — particularly of two individuals who, closely
wrapped up and muffled almost to the eyes, observed him
from a distance, listened in the shadow when, in a loud
voice, he demanded his ticket, and then, after he had
withdrawn, took two tickets, also for Boulogne, but second-
class.

The express left London and plunged into the darkness.
GavroUes found himself alone — for there were few pas-
sengers that night — in the smoking compartment of a
first-class carriage. While the rain hissed upon the window
pane, and the noise of the train drowned even the roaring
of the wind, he opened his little handbag, and eagerly re-
counted his treasure. His eye glittered with deUght as he
fingered the glittering gold pieces, and found them aU safe.
Then he wrapt his cloak around him, and resigned himself
to a doze.

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. ^71

At Folkestone the weather looked ugly in the extreme ;
the wind roared, and the sea flashed in the darkness, while
the packet rocked and throbbed with an uneasy motion.
At first Gavrolles hesitated, but his horror of sea-sickness
yielded to his intense longing to be again among certain
choice spirits on his native soil, and with a few shivering
compatriots he crept on board. Among those who followed
him were the two men who had watched him so curiously
at Charing Cross.

The passage was a miserable one. Gavrolles, to whom
expense was no consideration when he was in funds,
occupied the deck cabin, and suffered agonies through sea-
sickness. In the grey of a wintry morning, he alighted, a
piteous spectacle, ghastly, dishevelled, hideous, on the quay
at Boulogne.

Among the groups assembled to see the voyagers alight
was a white-haired woman, respectably but plainly dressed
in black. She watched the passengers alighting one by
one, until her eye fell upon a sinister-looking individual
smoking, with serene defiance of the elements, a clay pipe.
She at once greeted him by name, and, leading him aside,
accosted him in French.

' What I do you come alone? Where are those in
your charge?'

' Calm yourself, madame,' said the man with gruff
politeness. ' I shall falfil my contract. They would not
cross in such weather.'

' But they remain ? '

' Safe in the charge of my wife, at Folkestone. You
tvill find two of them charming ; the third not so good-
looking, but trh gentille. As I wrote you, one is a
domestic servant, another a tradesman's runaway daughter,
the third a figurante of the theatre. They all seek situa-
tions, which I have promised them, as you are aware.'

' But do they understand ? With the last there waa a
scandal, and I want no more trouble.'

, ' Trust my wife, madame ; there will be no difficulty.
As usual, when they find themselves under your kind care,
they will behave discreetly.'

At this juncture Gavrolles crawled up the gangway, the
picture of misery and collapse. No sooner did the woman
espy him than she uttered an exclamation.

272 MABTTBDOM OF M'ADELIJSE.

' I see another friend 1 ' she exclaimed to her com-
panion, ' Go on to my house, and await me there.'

Gavrollss, followed by a porter carrying his port-
nianteau, elbowed his way along the pier. Suddenly he felt
a touch upon his arm, and, turning sharply, saw the woman.

' Well met, Belleisle 1 ' she said with a grim smile and
a not too amiable compression of the lips.

So worn and washed out was the cosmic creature that
at the first glance he failed to recognise his old companion,
Madame de Fontenay.

' What ! ' she exclaimed. ' Do you forget me ? '

At last, his glazed and fish-like countenance expressed
a dim and irritated recognition.

' Is it you, Madame Louise 7 '

' Yes ; it is I ! — And you ? It is many a long day
since we met, though I have ofl;en inquired after you in
vain. You are a sly rascal, Belleisle; you forget old
friends, old services, old debts. Ah ! but / remember.'

' I have been in England,' replied Gavrolles, surveying
her with strong dislike.

' Ah, yes, so I heard. Have you been fortunate there,
mon ami 1 '

' On the contrary. But you 7 You live here ? '

' Yes,' said the woman.

' You follow the old trade, madame ? '

The woman nodded, and the two passed on in conver-
sation. GavroUes did not look back, or he would have
seen, still watching him with curiosity, the two men who
had followed him from Charing Cross.

Gavrolles slept that night in the H6tel de Eouen, a
chilly place, half-hotel, halE-prison, in a back street of
Boulogne. Here he had the pleasure of meeting two or
three gentlemen of his acquaintance, who earned their
money at the card table and in the billiard room, and spent
it in dingy dissipation, like cavaliers of pleasure.

With one of these individuals, an elderly man in a
seedy military undress, and with the face and manners of
a fire-eater, Gavrolles strolled out next morning, cigar in
mouth. Eoaming along by the sea, he came face to face,
in a quiet spot, with two Englishmen — James Forscer and
Edgar Sutherland.

MARTYRDOM OF . MADELINE. 273

GavroUes started and turned livid, clinging to his com-
panion's arm, as Sutherland accosted Mm.

' I salute you, Monsieur GavroUes. A word with you,
if you please.'

' What do you seek with me ? ' cried GavroUes, shrilly,
' I see you are not alone. If monsieur le mart yonder
wishes to recede from his bargain, it is too late. As for
you, monsieur, I once warned you ; and, as we are no
longer in England, beware ! '

Sutherland smiled. Forster, who looked pale as death,
was about to interpose, when the younger man continued :

' Monsieur GavroUes, it is precisely because we are no
longer in England that I accost you. Once, in London,
you did me the honour to express a hope that we might
meet on French soil. It was simply to realise that hope
that my friend supplied you with money. You came — we
followed — you understand ? '

GavroUes shrank back from the powerful figure, and
eyed the determined face with baleful hate.

' I have no quarrel with you. I — I do not know you.'

Before Sutherland could say another word Forster
interfered.

' The man is right. As I said to you from the first —
his quarrel is with me. Listen to me, man ! ' he con-
tinued, facing GavroUes. ' I am not a duellist, I know
nothing of your weapons, but unless you consent to fight
me I shall have you arrested as an extortioner and a thief.
You are still wanted in London, and if you refuse '

GavroUes, who had been watching the speaker keenly,
and had paid particular attention to his words, answered
with a scowl : —

' With you it is another affair, monsieur- I am at
your service.'

'When?'

' As soon as you please. I am sorry that we could not
end our little disagreement amicably, but since you are
determined '

And GavroUes shrugged his shoulders.

Sutherland pulled Forster aside, while GayroUes, with
an ugly smile, turned and volubly explained matters to his
companion,

T

271 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

' You are mad 1 ' Sutherland cried. ' You should
have left this afEair to me. He is an expert duellist, and
may kill you.'

'And if he does, so much the better.'

' You are determined ? '

'Yes.' For God's sake settle the matter as soon as
possible.'

Here GavroUes' companion with pompous dignity
approached Sutherland.

' Monsieur, that is my card. I am the Chevalier de
Beauvoisin, and I represent my friend. Where and when
can I see you and arrange the preliminaries ? '

' Now, on this spot.'

The two men walked aside, and remained for some
minutes in conversation. Then Sutherland returned to
Forster, took his arm, and led him away.

'It is arranged for to-morrow at daybreak,' he said,
' on the sands yonder, two miles from Boulogne. As yon
are the challenger, they had the choice of weapons. They
have chosen pistols.'

' Very well."

' Have you ever practised at a mark 7 '

Forster shook his head.

' I have never fired a pistol in my life.'

' Then it is an ugly afiair. Let me entreat you, accept
me as your substitute — I will force them to consent '

' No,' answered Forster with determination. ' It is my
place, not yours. I shall either avenge my poor martyred
wife or follow her to the grave.'

CHAPTER XLHI.

ON BOULOGNE SANDS.

In the early grey of the next morning, Forster and Suther-
land stood waiting at the place appointed, a solitary spot
just above high water mark. Far as the eye could see
nothing was visible but the cold sea on the one hand, and
the long, flat stretch of a great marsh, blackened here and
there by leafless tree, upon the other.

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 275

'They are late,' said Forster impatiently. 'If he
should take flight after all.'

' I think he will come. But you are shaking like a
leaf.'

' Do you think I am afraid ? ' asked Forster with a
strange smile.

Sutherland knew better, and shook his head sadly.
But Forster's agitation, caused mainly by the mental strain
of the last few days, filled him with deep concern.

A few minutes later three figures emerged on the open
space of sand. These were Gavrolles, the Chevalier, his
second, carrying a case of duelling pistols, and a little bald-
headed man, carrying another case filled with surgical
instruments.

The Chevalier led Sutherland apart.

' These are the weapons. Do they meet with your
approbation ? '

Sutherland examined the pistols, and nodded.

' Will you load them, monsieur, or shall I ? ' asked the
Chevalier, still politely.

Sutherland undertook the operation, while the Chevalier
watched hira keenly. The pistols loaded, Gavrolles took
one, Forster the other, and they moved to their places. It
was arranged that the Chevalier and Sutherland should
simultaneously count ten, and then utter the word " Fire,"
which should be the signal for the duellists to discharge
their weapons.

Sutherland placed his man in position. So little did-
Forster know of how to protect himself, so clumsy was his
exposure of his vital parts, that the surgeon in attendance
uttered an exclamation.

' Mon Dieu ! ' he cried. ' It is not like a duel — but an
assassination ! '

Trembling with fear for Forster, who seemed quite
helpless, Sutherland made one last appeal for him to with-
draw, but the appeal was altogether useless.

' Well, then, since it must be, cover your man well,
and aim low. The moment the word is given, raise your
aim and fire ; don't lose an instant, or he will anticipate
you. You understand ? '

'Yes.'

276 MART TBI) OM OF MADELINE.

The seconds moved away, while GavroUes and Forster
faced each other. On the face of the Frenchman there
was a curious blending of self-contidence, malignity, and
nervous anticipation.

The sun rose coldly over the damp sands, but the air
was still dank and cold, and the seconds, in slow monoton-
ous voices, began simultaneously to count.

One — two — three — four — five — six — seven — eight —
nine — ten — ' fire ! '

Before the last word was half pronounced, Gavrolles
had raised his weapon, covered his opponent with lightning
rapidity^ and fired.

At the very moment he was about to raise his pistol ii?
the air, Forster felt his arm suddenly grow powerless,
while the weapon dropped from his hand.

Sutherland and the little surgeon simultaneously uttered
an exclamation. The former reached his friend just in
time to catch him in his arms.

' He is wounded ! ' he cried. ' I call you all to witness,
it is a murder, not a duel.'

Swift as thought, the surgeon placed Forster on the
ground, stripped ofE his coat, and cutting away a portion
of his shirt, which was saturated with blood, disclosed an
ugly wound in the shoulder. Forster, who had scarcely
lost consciousness, opened his eyes with a twinge of pain,
as the surgeon began to probe the wound for the bullet.
It was the work of a moment ; for the lead, after striking
and partially fracturing the bone, had embedded itself in the
fleshy part of the arm.

' It is not so bad as I feared,' said the surgeon ; ' but it
was not fairly done.'

' It was most foully done,' cried Sutherland, springing
up and facing Gavrolles, who had approached and stood
very pale, looking on. ' Monsieur Gavrolles, it is now my
turn. You shall fight me 1 '

' I shall do nothing of the kind,' returned the French-
man, turning on his heel.

' But you shall ! ' Sutherland exclaimed, seizing him
by the arm and whirling him savagely round. ' If you do
not, I will shoot you like a dog.'

As he spoke he stooped and picked up Forster's un.

MARTYRDOM OF MADMLINE. 277

discharged pistol, and covered Gavrolles, who cowered and
shook like a leaf.

' I repeat, my friend has fallen by foul piay. You fired
too soon — ah I I know the old device of scoundrels like
yourself. I demand satisfaction.'

Here the Chevalier thought it time to interfere.

' If that is so, I am at your service.'

' All in good time, but my business is first with the
«_ssassin. I appeal to you as his second and a man of hon-
our. Was it a fair duel ? '

The Chevalier scowled and looked uneasily from one
to another.

' It was a mistake, doubtless,' he said ; ' your principal
was so slow.'

' It was no mistake ; it was a ruse. He shall fight
me — by God he shall ! '

The Chevalier turned to Gavrolles.

' What do you say ? '

Gavrolles shrugged his shoulders,

' The man is mad — I have no quarrel wi,th him — never-
theless, if he wishes to be served like his companion '

' No, it is impossible,' said the Chevalier. ' An affair
of honour must be conducted according to the code.
Even if my friend consented to this preposterous arrange-
ment, you would have to be properly represented, and,
there being no second present, I decline, on my friend's
account.'

But here the little surgeon, who had carefully drest
Forster's wound, and placed him carefully and comfort-
ably in a sitting posture against a large fragment of stone,
leapt up in excitement.

' Pardon, monsieur ! I am here, and I will act as the
English monsieur's second.'

' You ? ' exclaimed the Chevalier.

' Yes, Beauvoisin, I ! I saw it all, and I repeat — it was
not a duel, but an assassination.'

' Monsieur, take care ! '

' Do you take care, Beauvoisin ! ' screamed the little
man fiercely. ' I refuse to be a party to a cheat, either
with pistols or cards.'

More high words ensued, and the two combatants

278 MARTTBDOM OF MADELINE.

seemed likely to fly at each other's throats, when Gavrolles,
who saw Sutherland still ready to fire upon him if he
attempted to leave the ground, seized his second angrily
by the arm.

' It is enough — I will fight the scoundrel. If he falls
he will have himself to blame.'

So at last it was arranged. Gavrolles' pistol was re-
loaded, while Sutherland still retained the weapon undis-
charged by Forater. The ground was measured ; the men
took their places, and the seconds stood aside, ready to give
the signal.

It was arranged this time that ' three ' only should be
counted, and the moment the last numlier was given* the
men were to fire.

Sutherland stood cold and collected ; Gavrolles, this
time, shook violently, and seemed to lose his self-possession.

' Stop ! ' he cried, just as the second prepared to count.
'No! It is infamous! I will not fight again.'

And he threw down his pistol.

' A coward,' said Sutherland ; ' I thought so I '

But the fire-eating Chevalier now walked over, lifted
the weapon, and handed it back to his principal.

' On the contrary, you must fight now,' he said grimly.
' If not, I shall proclaim you to be what the Englishman
calls you, a coward.'

With one fierce glare into his friend's face, Gavrolles
snatched the pistol, uttered an execration, and again took
his stand facing Sutherland.

The Chevalier walked back to his place.

' One — two — three ! '

Before the last number was uttered, Gavrolles had
raised his pistol ; but Sutherland, who had watched him
keenly, was as quick as he. The weapons were discharged
simultaneously, and one sharp report rang out in the air.

Sutherland stood unscathed, though the bullet had
almost grazed his brow. Gavrolles, with a stifled scream,
threw up his arms, and fell forward on his face — shot
through the heart.

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 279

CHAPTER XLIV.

'jane peaeteee.'

The stream of my narrative, instead of lingering round
that group of excited duellists on the French coast, turns
again back to England, and to that place of refuge -which
the wandering woman, ' Jane Peartree,' found in the ex-
tremity of her distress.

Alter her first night under the roof of Mount Eden,
and after her first wild impulse to rise and fly on and on,
she subsided into a kind of restless slumber, accompanied
with violent shivering and nausea, and before twenty-four
hours had passed violent fever had set in. Over the
details of this illness, which lasted many weeks, I have no
intention to linger. We pass on to the period when the
invalid, sufficiently convalescent to sit up in the smaller
chamber to which she had been conveyed, began thoroughly
to realise the fiery ordeal through which her life had
passed.

It was a ropm overlooking the lawn and shrubberies,
which, at that season, were carpeted and draped with snow ;
and she sat one morning, looking out — on the white ground,
on the shrouded trees, on the red sun beyond, hanging like
a pink balloon close to the cold and foggy marshes, through
which flowed the sullen Thames.

By her side stood the French girl Adfele, who, through-
out the 'sickness, had been her voluntary nurse, and had
watched her with extraordinary tenderness and care.

' You are stronger to-day than ever, mademoiselle,'
she was saying in French ; ' you wiU soon be able to leave
this room.'

The invalid sat silent, her eyes on the dreary, winter
landscape, her pale beautiful face set like a mask of utter
forlomness and despair j then slowly, convulsively, her
bosom shook, her eyes filled, and large tears coursed silently
over her cheek.

' O mademoiselle, do not weep! It breaks my heart
to see you. Courage 1 Are you not nearly well ? Ah,

280 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

yes 1 and tliere will be happy days in store for you, after
BO great trouble.'

The invalid smiled sadly, and shook her head ; then
reaching out a wasted hand, she took one of the French girl's*

'AdMe!'

'Yes?'

' Did you ever care for any one very, very much ? I
don't mean foolishly, like young girls who think they love ;
but passionately, religiously, with your whole heart and
soul ? I do not speak of women, but of men, Adele ;
though there are good women too.'

With a curiously beautiful shame Adfele turned her
face away, while a faint flush crept over her face. After
a moment she replied evasively : —

' There are few good men, mademoiselle.'

' But have you known none ? '

' Yes, one — one only,' replied AdMe with sudden
warmth, ' and I think there is no other like him in the
world. Ah, mademoiselle, it is so strange that you should
ask me, since he is coming here to see me this very day.'

' Tell me about him, Adfele,' said the invalid gently.

' To tell you truly all he is, mademoiselle, I should
have to tell you all I have been, and then, you might hate
me I But no, you are too good. I know you have never
been there — where he found me — in the life which is worse
than hell. If you have been imfortunate, you have not
been to blame ; but I — I have been a devil, tempted by
a devil I Ah, yes ! '

As she proceeded, the girl seemed to yield more and
more to the hysterical excitement of her temperament and
race. Her fece went ghastly pale, her eyes swam with
tears, her hands opened and shut convulsively.

' Do not speak of it,' said the other, taking her hand
again gently — ' since it gives you such pain.'

' No, mademoiselle, let me speak,' returned Adele
struggling with her agitation, 'but I will not speak of
that, but of him who raised me from it and saved my
life for God. Twice, mademoiselle, he came like the
angel he is ; the first time it was too soon ; the second
time I thought it was the Lord Himself, standing — ah, so
beautiful 1 — at my bedside.'

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 281

She ceased, and, pressing her hands upon her bosom,
gazed out through the window, as if indeed she saw before
her the heavenly vision of which she spoke. Then, after
a little time, the invalid broke the silence, saying : —

' I think I understand you. I, too, have known such
a man as you describe — aU goodness, all kindness — so
diiferent to the rest. But I brought great misery to him,
and sometimes I think his heart must be quite broken.
That is what fills me with despair.'

' Truly, mademoiselle ? '

' Yes. If I could be certain that he was happy, that he
had forgotten me, I should not mind.'

' "Was he your lover, mademoiselle ? ' asked Adele,
suddenly looking into her companion's eye.

' He was my husband,' was the reply.

AdMe uttered an exclamation.

' Ah, that is different ! ' she cried in wonder. ' And
•—and — you left him, madame 1 '

' Yes, Adfele.'

' Although you loved him so much I '

' Because I loved him.'

' And does he live, madame 1 '

Again the softly summoned word ' madame,' so signifi-
cant of a new curiosity and a new respect.

' Yes, he lives, unless he has died of sorrow. I
brought disgrace upon him ; it was unhappy for him that
we ever met ; and so — I left him.'

' Does he know you are Jiere, madame ? '

Jane Peartree started nervously; then, smiling sadly
at her own terror, shook her head.

' God forbid 1 '

' And you are really his wife, madame 7 '

'Yes.'

AdMe walked to the window thoughtfully, and stood
there continuing the conversation.

' It must be so dreadful,' she said, ' for husband and
wife to part. I was never married, madame, but I under-
stand. A little time ago I was reading in an English news-
paper, of an English merchant, a rich man, whose wife
left him suddenly, and no one knew why. She had been
an actress in the theatre, and he had fallen in love with her

282 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

upon the stage. Then, owing to some disagreement, she
ran away.'

Fortunately, Adele was not looking at her companion ;
otherwise she would have been startled by the change that
had come over her. Leaning back in her invalid chair,
with the last trace of colour faded from her cheek, and her
form trembling violently, she murmured, in a voice of
forced composure —

' Yes ; — and did she return? '

'Ah, no, madame. The lady drowned herself that
very night, and the body was afterwards found in the
Morgue, at the police station, and identified by her husband.
It was the account of the inquest which I read in the
journals. Though the body had been long in the water,
and was quite disfigured, the husband recognised it at once.'

' But how ? '

' Easily. By the clothes upon it, and by a pair of
bracelets which the gentleman's sister had given to the
lady, as a birthday gift.'

The invalid uttered a low moan, and AdMe, approach-
ing her, saw with surprise that she had fainted in her chair.

Eeproaching herself for having wearied out her charge,
the French girl knelt by her side, chafed her hands, and
gradually drew her back to consciousness. At last open-
ing her eyes, she shuddered violently, and shrank away as
if possessed by some unaccountable terror.

' Jane 1 Madame 1 Calm yourself. It is I, Adele.
Forgive me for tiring you with my foolish chatter, since
you are so weak. I will fetch you your beef-tea, and then
you will be better.'

Gradually the invalid became more composed, and
partook of the nourishment which the kind nurse brought
to her ; but she still, from time to time, seemed to fix her
eyes on some sight of horror, and to tremble with secret
agitation.

A little later in the day, as she sat leaning back in her
chair and gazing in the fire, she heard the sound of wheels
on the gravel outside. Adele, who was at the window,
uttered a joyful cry.

' Madame 1 it is he ! it is my friend ! '

A few minutes later came a message from Sister Ursula

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 283

saying that AdMe was wanted below, and that during her
absence the messenger, a young country girl of seventeen,
was to remain in the sick room.

Ad^le, with sparkling eyes and heightened colour,
kissed the invalid, and departed.

A long time elapsed. Jane Peartree, with her eyes on
the fire, fell into a light sleep, broken by feverish flashes
of dream. She was awakened by the sound of voices at
her door. Then Adfele, smiling brightly, entered, accom-
panied by Sister Ursula.

' I have brought my friend,' she cried, ' to speak to
you before he goes. Come in, Mr. Sutherland.'

Before Jane Peartree could reply, a gentleman, hat in
hand, entered the room. The invalid looked up as if
startled, sat erect in her chair, and the full light of the
■wintry afternoon fell upon her beautiful face.

She did not recognise the gentleman, but at the first
glance he, to her horror and alarm, seemed to recognise
her. Turning ghastly pale, and uttering a wild exclama-
tion, he stood and gazed upon her, as upon a spirit risen irom
the dead.

' What is the matter ? ' cried Sister Ursula, in astonish-
ment, while AdMe Lambert stood by trembling, and Jane
Peartree, startled and terrified, shrank back in her chair.

But directly the first shock of surprise was over
Sutherland mastered his agitation, and quietly advanced
into the room.

' It is nothing,' he said to Sister Ursula. ' Pray forgive
my stupidity, but for the moment I was startled out of my
self-possession by a somewhat singular resemblance.'

He added, looking steadily at Jane Peartree : —

' They tell me you have been very ill. I trust you
are now almost well.'

He waited for a reply, but none came. Jane Peartree
still shrank back in terror or aversion, and endeavoured to
turn away her face. '

' You spoke of a resemblance,' said Sister Ursula.
' What did you mean ? '

Sutherland still kept his eyes upon the averted form
of Jane Peartree, and saw that it trembled violently, as he
replied :—

284 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

' It is scarcely worth mentioning further, for such
resemblances are common ; but at the first glance, this
lady seemed very like a person I once knew.'

To his intense surprise, Jane Peartree now turned her
eyes and looked steadily up at him. Her face was white
as death, but firm and resolved. Again the peculiar
likeness struck him, and he gazed in wonder ; but she
bore his gaze steadily, as she asked, in a low deep tone,
very unlike that of her usual voice —

' Who is the person of whom you speak 7 '

' A lady — a married lady.'

' A friend of yours, sir ? '

' Scarcely that ; one whom I met on several occasiona.
and whose character I greatly admired.'

' Is she still living, sir ? '

' No, she is dead,' answered Sutherland.

Jane Peartree turned her eyes away, and sighed
heavily, while AdMe stepped to the side of the chair, and
adjusted the pillows behind her head

' Her life was unhappy,' Sutherland continued, ' and
her death was very pitiful. She had just this lady's eyes,
her hair, even something of her voice. If a human being
could rise from the grave, I should say this lady was the
same ; that I know is impossible. Ah 1 if she only lived
— if I could only see her again — if I could only tell her ot
what has passed since she died ! '

As he spoke, he quietly watched the invalid, and saw
that she was still greatly agitated. Eager to spare her
pain, though still strangely curious and suspicious, he
changed the conversation, and talked lightly for some
minutes to Adfele and Sister Ursula. Finally he glanced
towards the door, and held out his hand to the invalid.

' Good-night,' he said.

' Good-night, sir,' said Jane Peartree, not turning her
face again.

' Good-night, Adfele,' he said, smiling.

' Good-night, monsieur,' answered Adele, looking at
him with bright, almost worshipping eyes ; then, lifting
his hand to her lips, she kissed it gently.

Accompanied by Sister Ursula, Sutherland descended

MARTTRBOM OF MADELINE. 285

to the lower part of the house, and entered a small sitting-
room, or office, reserved for the superior's private use.

' Tell me something more of your invalid,' he said
quickly. ' I feel rather interested in her. What did you
say was her name ? '

' Jane Peartree.'

' Jane Peartree ? '

' Yes ; but it may be assumed. I have noticed one
thing whigh I may tell you in confidence. The initials
on the clothes she wore when she came here are quite
different.'

' Indeed.'

' Not " J. P."— but "M. F."'

Sutherland started in new surprise,

' Impossible ! ' he exclaimed.

' Yes, " M. F." Do you know any person with those
initials ? Who was the person to whom you referred up-
stairs ? '

Sutherland's reply was singular.

' I cannot tell you ; not, at least, to-night. Promise
me, however, before I go, that this lady — she is a lady,
that is clear, and very different to the usual inmates of the
Plome — shall not go away from Mount Eden until you
hear from me again. In the meantime assure her, should
she question you, that I have not recognised her.'

' That you have not recognised her ? ' echoed Sister
Ursula, puzzled and anxious,

' Just so. It is important that you should not alarm
her ; it is equally important that she should not be lost
sight of, if what I suspect is possible.'

' But can you not explain ? '

' Do not ask me to-night. As soon as I can I will
write — or come to you. Pray trust me in this matter ; it
is a sort of miracle, not quite comprehended even by
myself.'

' As you please,' returned Sister Ursula, smiling,
' aince you axe determined to be inscrutable.'

886 MARTYBSOM OF MADELINE.

CHAPTER XLV.

AN OLD PICTDEE.

' And now before I go,' eaid Sutherland, changing his
manner, ' I have something for you : I think it will be a
surprise. Look there 1 '

So speaking, he took out a pocket-book and drew from
it a cheque for fifty pounds, payable to ' bearer.'

' I see,' said Sister Ursula ; ' another contribution to
Mount Eden. Ah ! you are indefatigable.'

' I assure you this is quite a windfall ; I did not even
shake the tree. Look at the signature. Do you know it ? '

' " Hubert Lagardere." No ! '

' Lagardere, the editor of the " Plain Speaker." '

Sister Ursula raised her eyebrows and lifted her hands.

' That man ! Why, I thought '

' And so did I,' cried Sutherland, laughing. ' So
thorough a worldling did I think him, that I have been
twice on the point of horsewhipping him. ' Well, I wag
sitting yesterday morning in my rooms when he was shown
in. It turned out afterwards that he had seen my name
connected in some way with this institution. He entered
mysteriously, carefully closed the door, and before I could
address him he handed me that cheque, with the intima
lion that it was to be paid over to you. " It seems to me
rather a good sort of idea," he said in his drawling way ;
" so I have brought you a trifle I won from Banbri Pasha
last night at nap." " Eeally, Mr. Lagardere," I said, "I
didn't give you credit for so much sympathy with misfor-
tune." I added : " I shall have much pleasure in making
public acknowledgment of your liberality." As I spoke the
words he trembled violently and clutched me by the arm.'

' How singular 1 ' said Sister Ursula.

' " For God's sake," he cried, " do nothing of the kind."
" Excuse me," I said, " it is only just. To be frank, I, in
common with many others, have held your style of jour-
nalism in the utmost detestation. In one case, at least, I
know you have helped to wreck a human life ; it is only
fair to proclaim that you are perhaps penitent, and "

MARTTBDOM OF MADELINE. 287

He interrupted me with an expletive. " Nothing of the
sort," he exclaimed ; " I don't profess to be a saint, and I
won't have my character taken away. Damme, sir, what
would the readers of the ' Plain Speaker ' think, if they
thought I had any commonplace compunctions ? They'd
all go back to the ' Whirligig,' vote me a molly-coddle,
and, as a journalist, I should be ruined." So I took the
cheque, on the condition that I should not disturb the
public in its happy confidence in the moral perversity of
the donor.'

Sister Ursula joined heartily in Sutherland's laughter.

' Well,' she said, ' you have certainly discovered a
phenomenon. Most men, even some good men, like to
have their charities written large for the world to read ;
whereas Mr. Lagardfere is actually ashamed of a good
action.'

' After all,' answered Sutherland, as they shook hands,
' he is what the world has made him. In a society which
sets success above goodness, and despises any kind of sen-
timent, he poses as a Cockney Mephistopheles. For the
future I shall never think oE him without calling up the
lines of Burns : —

Then fare-thee-weel, auld Nickie-Ben,
Ah, wad you tak' a thoucht, and men ' I
You aiblins might — I dinna ken —

Still hae a stake !
I'm wae to think upon yon den,

E'en for your sake !

For " den " substitute "journal," and the allusion — though
not the rhyme — would be perfect. I, for one, am " wae
to think " of the diabolic journalism of the period, even for
the sake of — ^Lagard^re ! '

As Sutherland hurried away through the night, driving
to catch a late train at a lonely railway station seven miles
from Mount Eden, his thoughts were not of Lagard^re and
the newest thing in journalism, but of her whom that man
and that system had helped to destroy. A wild suspicion,
deepening almost to certainty, and based upon the extra-
ordinary resemblance between Madeline Forster and the
woman calling herself Jane Peartree, had complete pos-

288 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

seasion of his mind. Strange and impossible as it seemed,
he could not shake away the belief that Jane Peartree
was, in flesh or spirit, the living image of the woman
whose death he had avenged on the body of GavroUes.

It may be a propos, at this point, to allay the reader's
curiosity as to what took place at Boulogne after Gavrolles
fell by Sutherland's hand. Of course there was an inquiry
and a great scandal — duels with fatal terminations being
very unusual in these days. Forster lay at the hotel slowly
recovering from his wound, under surveillance. Sutherland
was under arrest for some hours, and was only released on
giving substantial pledges to appear when called upon.
For a time it seemed likely that a prosecution of a seriouj
nature would ensue ; but money and influence were
brought to bear on the authorities, and the two English-
men were eventually suffered, whilSi; the police pretended
to ' look another way,' to cross the Channel,

After the death of Gavrolles, Forster seemed to resign
himself more and more to melancholic prostration; and
more than once when his wound was slowly healing, he
avowed his regret that it was not to have a fatal termina-
tion. He would sit for days in a sort of mental stupor,
scarcely looking up when spoken to, seldom or never utter-
ing a word. On his return to England, instead of again
occupying his house at Kensington, he took chambers near
Bond Street for himself and his little son, and had the
family mansion closed. His sister Margaret wished to re-
main with him, but at his strong desire she went away to
dwell with some relations in the country. To tell the
truth, he had not quite forgiven her the want of sympathy
she had shown for the lost idol of his life.

The morning after his return from Mount Eden,
Sutherland found Forster, sad, despairing, but convales-
cent, in his lonely chambers. The two had by this time
become great friends, or more than friends ; and Suther-
land was welcomed with as bright a smile as the weary
face could wear.

' I have been looking over some old photographs,' said
Forster presently. ' Strange ! how they one and all fail
to represent her I have lost. Here is one of " Imogen."
The features are there, but the soul is altogether wanting.'

MABTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 289

Sutherland glanced over the pictures, which were lying
on a small writing-table at Porster's side ; then he said
quietly —

' Do you think it wise to open up old wounds in this
way ? Can you not try to forget ? '

' Never, never ! ' returned Forster, while his eyes filled
with' tears. ' My only comfort, now, is to think of my
darling — ^to wait and pray until, with God's blessing, we
meet again.'

' Can you bear to speak of her, now 7 '

'Yes.'

' Could you bear to think it possible that, after all, you
might yet meet — not up yonder in the heaven of the
preacher, but here, on solid earth, in broad day 7 '

'What do you mean !' cried Forster, trembling violently.
' Alas, she is dead ! dead ! '

' The dead have once risen. Might they not rise
again 7 '

CHAPTER XLVI.

HOW MADELINE KOSE AGAIN.

A FEW days after Edgar Sutherland's visit to Mount Eden,
Jane Peartree walked out for the first time after her illness
into the sun. She wore the plain cap and gown of the
other inmates of the Home, and even in that simple costume
(or rather, perhaps, because of it) she looked strangely
beautiful. Leaning on the arm of Adfele Lambert, she
passed feebly across the green lawn in front of the house,
and gained a garden seat in a quiet walk leading to the
home farm.

The day was very mild for wintertide, the sun was
shining gently, and here and there from the dark earth a
snowdrop was peeping. The air, moreover, was fiall of
that cool, balmy sweetness which- so often in our chiU
climate precedes the resurrection of the spring.

But Jane Peartree was ill at ease. Ever since hei
encounter with Sutherland she had been strangely fretful
and uneasy, and had not her strength failed she would
certainly have taken her departure before that day.

290 MARTYRDOM OF MADEZINB.

As they sat together on the window-seat, her cry was
still for speedy flight.

' I must go to-morrow ! — yes, Adfele, to-morrow I I
have already stayed too long ! '

' But, madame, you are still so weak. Why should
you go so soon 7 '

' I cannot stay ! I have so far to go, — and — and I
shall go mad, I think, if I remain. You are aU kind-
kinder than I deserve — but it is not that ! No, no I '

' But where will you go, madame 7 Have you not told
me you have no home — no friends ? '

' 1 have none — I want none,' returned Jane Peartree ;
' but aU the same, I must leave this place. Here, I feel
like a dead woman in her shroud, dead and cold, but being
forced back to life, just when I would be left alone to rest
for ever. I do not feel at peace. In the night I caimot
sleep, and in the day I am afraid. Why should I be sit-
ting here in the sunshine, when by rights I should be lying
in my grave ? '

Adfele looked at her companion in deep sorrow and
pain, and wondered, indeed, if her wits were going, since
her words were so incomprehensible and strange. Just
then, as they sat side by side, there passed across the lawn,
some hundred yards away, the figure of a man, at the sight
of whom Adfele brightened, and said, forcing a smile : —

' Sister Ursula tells me your name is imcommon, even
in England ; yet you have a namesake yonder, madame.'

' A namesake 7 ' repeated Jane Peartree.

' Yes ; one of the gardeners upon the estate. That is
he crossing to the shrubberies.'

Jane Peartree turned her weary eyes towards the man,
and in a moment her heart leapt up in wondering recogni-
tion, her pale face flushed, and she uttered a low cry. Who
that had once seen it could fail to remember the little,
quaint, old-fashioned figure, the curious gait, of Luke
Peartree 7 Yes, it was Uncle Luke, greyer and older than
when, long years before, he led little Madeline home from
Grayfleet Churchyard, but still living — ' to brighten the
simshine.'

' Quick ! call him 1 I must speak to him I ' cried the
invalid, rising faintly to her feet.

MAUTTRDOM OF MADELINE. 291

AdMe ran off instantly after the man, who had disap-
peared into the shrubberies. Presently she reappeared,
the little gnome-Iilce figure trotting by her side. As he
came up, clad in homespun and leather gaiters, and carry-
ing a pruning-hook, his wrinkled face expanded into the
Taoant wondering smile that was so familiar.

What was his surprise to see a strange woman, tall and
pale, standing with extended arms, gazing upon him
through streaming tears ?

' Uncle Luke I don't you know me 7 '

Uncle Luke stood and scratched his head, smiling, more
amicably than ever, the smile of honest stupefaction. Be-
fore he could utter a word, which, indeed, he was in no
iiurry to do, the strange woman had flung her arms around
his neck, and, sobbing and crying, was kissing him upon
the cheek.

' Uncle Luke 1 it is I — Madeline 1 '

The little man staggered as if under a blow, and went
quite pale.

' Madlin ! ' he cried. ' Not little Madlin as I brung to
London ! Why, lor', so it be ! '

And at a loss for any other means of expressing his
utter bewilderment and delight, he grinned from ear to
ear.

Very pretty it was, as well as pitiful, to see Madelin
(whom we shall call by her assumed name no longer) lead
the little man to the gatden seat, sit by his side, hold his
Land, and look fondly in his eyes, as she questioned him,
lifting his rough hand to kiss it from time to time. The
weight of years, the burden of sorrow, had rolled away
from her in a moment, and she was a child again, while
the heaven that ' bends above us in our infancy ' wa»
opening over her — bright, tranqnil, peaceful, and divine.

Meantime, poor Uncle Luke seemed too stupefied to
understand completsly what was taking place. He sat
blushing and grinning, scarcely able to recognise, in the
beautiM, full-grown woman fondling him, the little
Madlin of his remembrance ; and indeed that remembrance
was sadly clouded, like the rest of his feeble mind, by the
mists of years. When she told him how diligently and
how often she had sought to trace him, when she ques-

292 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

tioned him as to the reasons which had prevented him
from seeking her out, he had little or no reply to give.
She gathered, however, that he had been for years in th«
service of a distant kinsriian, who was a head gardener on
the estate.

It was destined to be a day of strange surprises. As
Madeline sat by Uncle Luke, her face wet with happy
tears, two gentlemen approached along the garden wall
behind her. Adfele saw them first, and was about to utter
a delighted ■ ctj, when the younger of the two placed his
finger to his lips to enjoin silence. Thus it happened that,
before Madeline knew or suspected the truth, she saw her
husband standing before her, gazing upon her with wistful,
wondering eyes ; and before she could stir or speak she
beheld him kneeling beside her, sobbing wildly, touching
her with his outstretched hand.

' Madeline I My darling ! '

She rose wildly to her feet, looking this way and that,
as if in act to fly. Uncle Luke rose too, completely
puzzled, till Adele beckoned him away. So it came to
pass that the other three walked aside, and the husband
and wife were left alone.

' Madeline ! speak to me ; my Madeline, my own dear
wifel*

She shuddered at the last word, and made a feeble
attempt to withdraw from his embrace ; but at last,
sobbing hysterically, she yielded, and suffered him, with
tenderest kisses, to place her head upon his breast.

EPILOGUE.

Ih that manner, and in no other, Madeline rose fl-om the
grave.

"When the first shock of meeting was over, and calmer
speech was possible, Forster told his wife of the duel on
Boulogne sands and the death of her persecutor at the
hands of Edgar Sutherland ; thus assuring her that,
whether the marriage with Gavrolles was real or a delusion,
she was then a free woman. She listened sadly, and

MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 23R

teemed little comforted, until Forster assured her of his
intention, with her consent, to quit England, and seek
some country where the story of their sorrows was un-
known, and where the viperous journal of the period has
not yet begun to crawl. Then she again laid her head
npon his breast, and promised to go with him, anywhere
out of the old world of scandal, cruelty, and shame.

So she lived, who had died. By her own lips the
mystery of her resurrection was explained. She told him
how, while flying in despair, she had encountered the poor
waif of the streets, and in some wild impulse of dread,
fearing pursuit, and wishing to destroy all traces of
identity, she had taken the shawl from her shoulders,
bracelets firom her wrists, and given them to her outcast
sister. The rest was clear. Mad with drink and misery,
the outcast must have yielded to death's fascination, and
cast herself away into the river — whence, long afterwards,
her disfigured body was taken to be identified by Forster
and buried, as the reader is aware.

Madeline lived again. She stiU lives, but far away
ftom the scene of her martyrdom. Sometimes in the course
of his wanderings (for he is still a wanderer and unmarried)
Edgar Sutherland visits a pleasant home on the bank of
a great American river, where a happy wife and husband
are growing old together among their children. There he
is ever an honoured guest, certain of having attentive
auditors while he discourses, more garrulously as years
creep on, on his pet theme — the purification of manhood
and the regeneration of womankind.

Uncle Luke is yonder, too. At Madeline's strong
entreaty, he accompanied her from England ; and now,
very old and feeble, but still bright and simple as ever, he
goes hand in hand through the woods and fields, with ,
another ' little Madlin,' the very image of the little girl
he used to love so well. For a long time he hardly
seemed to recognise in the gentle woman who took him to
her home the pretty Madeline of other years ; but when
tiie child came, he, a child himself, found his happiness in
her, and recognised the vision of his old playmate, re-risen
to delight bia declining days.

And now, what remains to be told t The human

S94 MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.

Bhadows that have arisen throughout our story fade one by
one away. Of only one of these, Adfele Lambert, will the
reader care to hear a last record. She died in the spring-
time at Mount Eden, passing away, in perfect peace and
faith ; her spirit purified ; her hand in that of the man
who had pointed her upward to a holier life, her eyes on
the face she had learned to regard as that of an angel, sent
to succour sinners in this dark world.
, This world remains as most men find it ; a tomb, save
for those superb spirits who come to bless the wretcheder
dwellers in it, with deeds of beautiful self-sacrifice and words
of divine love. In the depth of its darker recesses, stUl
the snake-like seducer slimes his victim, and the slanderer
Bpits his venom, and the literature of the Liar stiU festers
like a feverish sore, spreading moral sickness and contami-
nation all around. Thence, and thence only, comes the
voice which would fein proclaim to the unhappy that there
is no God, and but one gospel^ — ' Eat and drink, for to-
morrow you die.' But God is, as sure as Love is, or
Hope, or heavenly Purity and Light. Therefore let no
man despair, though now, as ever, ' the Light shineth in
Darkness, and the Darkness comprehendeth it not.'

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